Minuet in F you Major
by LightHeartLoreli
Summary: Dissonance: A chord that sounds incomplete until it resolves itself on a harmonious chord. Will calculating conductor Edward Cullen and spirited cellist Rosalie Hale write an adagio for love or a requiem for love lost? A FGB Novella for Team Cellolie.
1. Chapter 1

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD  
**

* * *

"No."

Rosalie Hale wasn't used to hearing the word _no._  
_  
_Yet, there it was.

The word slammed into her, full force. It was an ugly word coming from a pretty mouth with a harsh smirk. Two little letters.

Her fiery contempt collided with his icy indifference as she stood. She remembered herself and the fire was muted for a moment as she gave a curt nod at the other judges, thanking _them _for their time.

Her eyes slid down the line of faces once more to the only one that mattered, the one who denied her. She_ didn't need _him_, _he_ needed _her, she thought haughtily.

She drew little satisfaction from the thought that it was his loss as he continued to smirk at her angry glare. She knew she had to leave the room. She was the one who would have to break the stare and it only made her blood boil more.

Rosalie picked up her instrument, which felt much heavier than when she'd walked in the room. And finally... finally, when there was nothing left for her to do, she looked away, and left.

[~*~*~]

Mornings leading up to an audition were always the same.

_Eyes open._

Her pupils dilated, adjusting to the darkness. She stared at the ceiling fan above her bed before pulling her comforter up and over, flipping to her side and flopping on her pillow. It was too early.

_Eyes close._

She listened to the muted hum of the fan. The short metal chain clicked in time against the plastic. She ran it even in the winter months, to keep the air circulating.

_Eyes open._

Rosalie sat up in her bed. It was useless. She was up for the day and she had to prepare.

Sitting on her bed, prior to touching her feet to the floor, she pulled her favorite instrument into her lap. Her fingers traced the outline of its hourglass curves, visiting the worn and familiar areas where the wood had nearly taken shape to her. Of course, it had not, but in her mind, she could see where her leg rubbed against its body and where her fingers pressed against the board and strings. She and her cello were one and the same. An extension of her, an outlet for her emotions to be expressed.

Swinging her bare feet to the hardwood below her, she quickly picked up her bow with her right hand and put it to work. Hair strands against nylon. She owned another cello strung with gut, but she preferred this one for auditions. _This_ cello was her comfort and the tonal sounds were more _her _than the gut or the steel. Closing her eyes, she played a classical favorite, Bach's _Suite No. 1_. The notes so familiar to her, she did not need to look at pages of sheet music; this song was a cellist's calling card. She played it for more weddings than she could count and it was the one that people would hum, even if they didn't know its given name. Rosalie would watch from her position at the front of the church, the garden, or where ever she'd been placed, as the friends and family would filter in for the ceremony. It wasn't _the _music, the one that bridesmaids or the bride herself would walk down the aisle to, but it was the prelude, the song that signified gearing up for the big event.

This was _her_ prelude.

With her eyes closed, she envisioned a flag dancing in the breeze, her mom standing behind her while she sat on the porch steps of yet another summer rental house. Never one they owned because they traveled too much to plant roots. She ran in a field of wild flowers with their Shepard mix by her side. The light cotton dress twirled out around her as she spun and through the notes of her song, she heard her childhood laughter, mixed with her father's playing of his own instrument. The sun beating on her hair, white light dances in between strands, the same color as the strands of her bow.

She held out the last note, her fingers trembling, creating the sweet vibrato of the strings. Pausing for a moment, the childhood memory faded from her vision before she switched to a more contemporary melody. The words to the Radiohead song were hummed absentmindedly as she leaned into her cello, her entire body playing the instrument. The pictures that flashed before her weren't memories but snapshots of her current life and the sadness of the song did not escape her. _Such a pretty house. Such a pretty garden._

She opened her eyes to find two emerald green eyes staring beyond her soul.

"Mr. Holland," she sighed as the cat jumped up onto the bed next to her, the silky body sliding up and down the arm holding the bow. Dropping the bow to the other side of the bed where it would not be trampled, she brought her free hand close to the cat's head, waiting for the satisfied purr that always accompanied a good ear-scratch. "You're my favorite audience. I wish I could bring you to the audition." The cat meowed sympathetically before nudging Rosalie's arm once more, almost as if prompting Rosalie to complete her pre-audition rituals.

Rosalie cleaned the cello before reverently placing it in its case. Methodically, she went about her morning routine with Mr. Holland following behind her, watching her every move to make sure she left nothing out. The audition was at half past eleven, which meant that she would have to leave her apartment no later than ten thirty. It would assure her plenty of time to mentally prepare. She was certain the audition was not a cattle call; she knew that the Philharmonic wouldn't waste their time on people who weren't dedicated to their craft. The competition would be fierce, regardless.

She had dedicated her life to music. It was her definition, what she lived and breathed. Everything else came after it. Everything.

She hadn't had an audition of this caliber in quite some time. Rosalie knew she needed to make a change in her life the day she almost died.

The statement was a bit melodramatic but Rosalie was nothing if not a bit melodramatic. She had been crossing the street when a city bus came out of nowhere, nearly clipping her head with its side view mirror. It was then and there that she realized she'd gotten complacent in her new life, in her new city. She needed to reach for something challenging, and when whispers of seats opening in the Philharmonic reached her musically inclined ears, she knew she needed to schedule an audition. Somewhere along the way, when she wasn't paying attention, she had lost her control, lost her drive. She needed to get it back and she knew this was a step toward that. It would be something, and right now, she needed something. Something more.

Before leaving her apartment, she stopped at the low table where her things sat, lined up and not touching. First the knit scarf was looped around her neck. Placing the pad of the ring finger of her left hand to her lips, she pressed a kiss to it before touching it to a picture of her mother, then repeated the motion and touched the smiling face of her father in the same picture. Reaching down, she stroked Mr. Holland's flank, completing her ritualistic goodbyes. Picking up her satchel, she slung it over her shoulder before hooking her hand through the handle of her cello's case.

Earlier, on the other side of town in a drafty remodeled warehouse loft, Edward's alarm buzzed at the unheard of hour of 4:30 AM. Rather than pressing the snooze button like any other normal, sleep-loving person would have, he sat straight up and disabled the shrieking alarm without a second thought. It was cold in his bedroom, owing to the usual frigidity of a mid-November morning and the fact that he slept better when the air was cool and a warm layer of the finest goose down protected him from the world. In spite of the chill, he had no trouble resisting the temptation to nestle back under the down comforter and stay warm and cozy in bed, curled up with his dog, Jack. Instead, he threw back the blankets and let the cold air assault him while he slid his feet into the sheepskin slippers his mother had sent him from Washington. Jack watched with disinterest as Edward plucked the fleece robe from the foot of his bed and threw it on over his tee shirt and pajama pants; Jack had no desire to budge from his warm, snuggly spot on the bed. Edward eyed him with envy for a moment, then shuffled toward the thermostat, wishing for the hundredth time that he was handy enough to install a digital one so he wouldn't have to freeze his ass off for half an hour every morning, but the fact was, he simply didn't get along well with tools.

He moved groggily in the direction of the kitchen and coffee maker while his mind started its routine. A pattern that was as automatic as the buzzer of his alarm clock, run through the day's itinerary; filter, catalog and prioritize. His thoughts ran together as he put a filter in the coffee maker and got the grounds from the freezer. _More auditions today...hope we can get something accomplished, get one chair filled. Yesterday only three decent auditions out of thirty seven. _Once Mr. Coffee began to gurgle, his feet carried him back to the bedroom and then the closet, where he changed into sweats and tennis shoes, then grabbed Jack's leash. Jack was off the bed and standing by the front door, tail wagging and tongue lolling in excitement, knowing his moment had finally arrived.

"You won't be so happy once you realize it's cold enough that your piss freezes before it hits the sidewalk, champ," Edward said to him, as he did every winter morning. He pulled on his overcoat and donned the knitted scarf and hat his mom had made for him. Jack just boo-woo'ed in response, his tail wagging a little faster. Before leaving, Edward poured a cup of coffee in his travel mug, pulled the ever present tub of Cool Whip from the fridge, spooned out a generous plop, and dropped it into his coffee. He found it made the perfect sweetener and creamer all in one. With a mug of coffee in hand, he clipped the leash onto the dog's collar and Edward the conductor and Jack, his Shepherd-Chow mix, began their day together.

They followed their usual route down the street, around the corner and two blocks over to the middle school and its big, empty football field. As Edward and Jack walked their routine two laps around, Jack kept his nose to the ground, occasionally scampering off to investigate a particularly interesting scent, and Edward let his feet guide him on their familiar daily walk. His mind fell back to preparing for the day ahead. He still needed to find an oboe, French horn and a cello. He knew if he found one adequate musician today, he'd count it a day's work well done. Regardless, he just wanted to be finished with auditions so he could get to the much more important task of rehearsal. The time it took to unify an orchestra around new pieces, especially one with new members, was crucial and time was the one thing music director Edward Cullen didn't have.

They walked home, and after thirty minutes on his treadmill, he made himself breakfast. One egg white, scrambled. One half a bagel with cream cheese, (sometimes lox on special days such as openings, because he was rather superstitious), and a banana. After eating, he fed Jack, then laid out his clothes on the bed, showered, brushed his teeth, dressed. He refilled his coffee and he and Jack walked the short distance from his loft to the concert hall. This is what Edward did the morning of Rosalie's audition. This is what Edward did _every_ morning.

Every. Morning.

The same routine, in the same order. No deviation.

Not since the divorce and Bella's departure.

Not since he'd become independent for the first time.

He was finally beginning to _like_ it this way.

_His _way.

[~*~*~]

After arriving at the hall and alerting them to her arrival, Rosalie made her way to the green room. The hum of instruments was dampened by the closed door. A violinist swung the door open just as she reached for the handle, a cacophony of sounds welcoming her into the room. She nodded hellos to familiar faces; though she was new to the area, theirs was a small community and concert musicians often ran in the same circles.

The instruments might have sounded like _just _noise to anyone else, but Rosalie's trained ear was able to pick out Beethoven's _Violin Concerto_, a flutist and clarinetist practicing _Flight of the Bumblebee _together, as well as a variety of other odds and ends. Rosalie located an unoccupied spot near the windows, and she sat on the radiator, her legs stretched the length of the metal vent. She did not play, and other musicians looked at her curiously as she quietly sat, her instrument resting on her legs. The scroll balanced on her feet, the end pin extended and tucked under her arm. The cello sat upside down so that she wouldn't give into the temptation, she knew her fingers would never stop fiddling otherwise. She never played while in the green room. She freed her instrument, gave it time to adjust to temperature, humidity, even mood. Together, they waited, saving their song for those who were there to hear her perform. The winter sun shone through the window, warming her. It wouldn't erase the cold outside but inside, it lit her and comforted her.

It had been years since she'd pursued an opportunity like this, and years since this process had been more than a formality. Of course, she often went on "auditions" for weddings and other events, but those were in the bag. The untrained ear just wanted something resembling pretty and Rosalie was both talented _and _beautiful, making her the ideal accompaniment for any prestigious occasion.

She had done her homework and knew the people for whom she'd be auditioning. The panel consisted of four board members for the Philharmonic, and of course, the conductor, Edward Cullen. She had not yet met him but she knew of his reputation. Young for a conductor, recently divorced, a bit broody, but a brilliant composer. Though Rosalie wasn't one for gossip, she couldn't miss the whispers traveling through the musical community. That was because they weren't quiet, they were loud. That's how things were in their world. Even still, she looked forward to working with him.

People came and exited the room; she heard groans and cheers around her but kept her eyes closed and never paid much attention to the rest of the room. Flipping her cello upright, she idly began fingering and bowing, tuning the instrument using just her ear. She knew it was almost her time, and they were ready. Her cello was an extension of her, and this close to performance time, they truly became one. She had a nervous energy coursing through her body, although an onlooker would never know it. To those surrounding her, she was the picture of confidence, cool and collected.

When Edward got to work, he went to his office and started the coffee machine atop the mini-fridge, an exact match to the Mr. Coffee he had in his kitchen. He removed his coat and emptied his pockets on his desk, lining up each item in a neat row. Jack curled up on the dog bed under the window and quickly dozed off. After another refill of his travel mug and another dollop of Cool Whip, Edward relaxed into his cushioned leather desk chair to thumb through the files of the day's audition candidates.

A few looked promising, including an oboe and a cello, two of the five chairs he needed to fill. The cellist in particular was very promising. Her name was Rosalie Hale, and he very much looked forward to hearing her play. Her reputation preceded her; he'd been told she was quite talented, and a dedicated cellist, if still a little green. He reviewed her application and credentials again. No doubt she was qualified, but would she have the passion and rigor he required of his musicians? He certainly hoped so, because he wanted auditions to be over. However, he said no much more often than he said yes and as music director and conductor, he had the final say in who was awarded a coveted second audition.

Auditions began at half past eight and Edward found himself seated beside his counterparts on the board in the vast, and otherwise, empty, symphony hall, listening to musician after musician. The morning passed slowly, while Edward sat and sipped his coffee, hoping someone would come on that stage and make his heart weep from the music's beauty.

In the green room, a voice broke Rose's quiet introspection and mindless tuning, informing her that she was up next to audition. Quietly, she nodded and acknowledged the woman who stood next to her, clipboard in hand. Making her way to the wing of the stage, she stood with her cello, waiting for the oboist to finish. She'd tried to play the double reed instrument while at the music conservatory but never quite got used to the hum between her lips. No, she much preferred the strings, the opportunity to speak if needed while she played.

Edward thoughtfully pressed his fingers against his lips, happy to finally hear something promising offered by the prospect for the oboe chair. She played with precise, swift fingertips and beautifully modulated tone. Her vibrato was sublime, her glissando flawless. She finished her piece and looked up hopefully at the panel. The four board members brought their heads together, quietly conferring with one another on the group consensus. The board members had known each other for quite some time, running in the same circles as Rosalie and her peers had done only a few decades before. They heard of up-and-comers through the grapevine and knew who to keep a strictly trained ear on. The conductor sat a noticeable chair-length apart from the rest of the panel, letting them have their conversation. He humored them as they nattered and mused, knowing he had the final say in who wound up in _his _orchestra. The other members were ancillary at best. It made them feel wanted and important to participate, so he waited, hoping he would not have to override their ultimate decision.

"Good," Edward said to her. "Can you stay for a second audition?" She nodded excitedly. "If you'll wait in the green room," he instructed, and looked down at the notes in front of him, pretending to look for her name. He knew her name, but he didn't believe in puffing up egos. "Thank you, Jessica," he said and directed her to exit stage right, to await her call.

Next was Rosalie Hale. He was impressed with her resume and background in music, not only her own, but her upbringing by parents who were accomplished musicians themselves. He was certain that she would be the best he'd heard over the week. Yes, he was very eager to hear her play.

Rosalie watched with mild amusement the exchange between the oboist and the conductor from the wings. As Jessica walked in the other direction, she lifted her cello and briskly, confidently, walking to the chair that sat in the center of the stage. Her performance face firmly in place, she introduced herself, making deliberate but warm eye contact with the panel members with whom she was acquainted. Announcing her choice in audition piece, she heard a murmur of approval and smiled inwardly at their reaction. Paganini's _Caprice No. 24 _was usually heard on the violin and extremely hard to master, but Rosalie was confident in her abilities and knew that not many cellists even attempted a piece like this for an audition. They would stick with something safe.

_Rosalie was done with playing it safe._

Edward watched her as she walked toward the lonely seat in the center of the darkened stage. She was a little too calm and self-possessed in his opinion, considering the situation. Her confidence in her ability was obvious. Maybe a little too obvious. He watched her nod to each of the members of the panel, except for Edward. When she announced her music selection, his immediate reaction was: careless. ___She doesn't need to risk blowing this, she should play it safe. I was right, she's overconfident. _Confidence was something you absolutely want in every musician in your orchestra, but overconfidence can cause problems. The conductor's job was to unify the orchestra, to make them one cohesive organic being, in a way. He preferred working with people who he knew would take direction, and take it easily and without argument. He welcomed the sharing of ideas, but when he tapped his baton on the podium, _he_ was in charge. What he said was_ final._

None of these thoughts showed in his face; his expression while working was a mask of polite indifference. She sat down, and her cello found its home, resting once more against her leg and wrapped by her body. Closing her eyes, she tapped the pad of her ring finger twice to her cello, sending silent kisses to her parents and putting her heart into her music. Edward watched her fingers fly gracefully along the smooth black neck of the cello's fingerboard and its thick strings, he couldn't deny her passion for playing. Clearly, the music transported her to another place, which was a rare and treasured gift from a professional musician. With this piece, however, there was a fine line between sloppy and finessed. Unfortunately for Rosalie, she was so absorbed, she ended up (in his opinion) on the hazy grey side of sloppy, possibly only noticeable to the notoriously picky conductor. It was obvious to Edward that she had potential, she just needed to learn how to keep one ear in magic music land and one ear on the real live conductor and the orchestra to which she belonged. She was too self-absorbed, too used to playing alone and in small ensembles. Edward didn't think he had the time to reel her in and teach her how to be the organelle he needed in his cellular symphony. She wasn't auditioning for first chair after all.

The room around her melted away to nothing as her mind transformed into a virtual kaleidoscope, colors dancing in time with the pace of her bow. No longer were there thoughts of the five people that were judging her, of the footsteps of the next musician, of the woman with the clipboard. None of that registered. She played with her whole being, considered no one else but herself and her music.

Until a voice interrupted her.

"Thank you, that will be all."

Startled, her arm stilled, the bow still resting on the strings. Her eyes flew open and she knew the owner of the gruff voice, without having seen the words spoken. Blue found what she could only perceive as arrogant green. He took a sip from his mug before nodding with his chin toward the door, dismissing her.

"I'm sorry?" she replied, her brow creased with genuine confusion. He had a sneaking suspicion she'd never been interrupted before. He smirked.

She was not _________sorry. _She was furious at his interruption. At his dismissal. The panel looked from her to him, fascinated and mystified by the confrontation unfolding before them.

"Your shift was sloppy during the third scale progression. There's a reason people choose not to play this piece for an audition. You haven't mastered it," he said, answering her unspoken question.

Her voice was abnormally high in her indignation. "I beg your pardon. My shift was not sloppy and I mastered this piece years-" she protested.

Just as he'd suspected, she was resistant to direction. And even more beautiful when angry, he noticed, annoyed. Edward pretended he didn't enjoy telling performers they weren't good enough for his orchestra. He did take pride, however, in setting a consistent standard of excellence, and he would never shy away from explaining to someone why they failed to meet it. Saying _no_ was an essential part of his job as conductor, and he didn't take it lightly. He'd already said no more times than he could count that day, and despite the obvious annoyance displayed by the other panel members that this was taking entirely too long, he would continue to say it.

"We are at an impasse. Unfortunately for you, we aren't bargaining here. Even still, I'd be interested to hear what my counterparts thought."

_________Bite your tongue, Rosalie. Do not burn bridges._

The four bowed their heads together, no longer fascinated but nervous about the task set upon them by the conductor. They all knew what his response would be. Did they dare say otherwise?

"No."

They did not.

He shrugged apologetically, but in her opinion not really, and once more repeated the word. "No." He watched her jaw tense, her lips twitch; her face was so easy to read. She was livid… and absolutely stunning. He suddenly regretted not having the chance to get to know her. It was too late that for that, though. He knew he'd just made an enemy. She rose and gave a short nod to the rest of the panel before letting her scorching, angry blue eyes fall on Edward's cool, calm green ones. He didn't back down from her. He kept his smirk firmly in place; she needed to remember it was she who had auditioned, asking to be judged. Finally, she collected her cello, finally breaking the stare as she exited stage left.

The rest of the day passed in an uneventful blur of mediocre performances and the alpine scent of rosin. The oboist, Jessica, was the only musical pleasure the afternoon afforded and at the end of her second audition she was offered a place in the orchestra. Her eager smile and obvious willingness to please was a sharp contrast to Rosalie Hale, whom Edward couldn't get out of his head. Imagine. Her flowing blonde hair, wrathful blue eyes full of insulted anger and heartfelt passion for music had made an impression. He tried to push her from his mind the entire day, but finally gave up after he caught himself whistling Paganini's _________Caprice No. 24_ on his walk home with Jack. He hoped playing at the jazz club later with Jasper, his usual Tuesday night routine, would help take his mind off things. He feared, however, that the sultry sounds of an alto sax and blues guitar would do little to make him forget Rosalie's full round lips and fiery disposition.

* * *

**krisbcullen **is our beta-love and our love-love.

We are lucky to have three prereaders. **Chele681 **is our cellist with the mostest (and it was her birthday yesterday!). **TheHeartofLife** and **Miztrezboo** are Roseward enthusiasts, honest about their feelings (especially when calling our characters out on their shenanigans), and very pretty.

The Age Of Edward Contest just launched! Pioneerward, Pirateward or Greaserward? Write it for the biggest Edward appreciation contest there is. http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/u/2493079/Age_of_Edward_2010

**Minuet in F (you) Major **was written with love and gratitude for the very gorgeous Fandom Gives Back Team Cellolie and will be posting every Friday.

Reviews make us smile. Okay fine, reviews make us squee. A lot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom (welcome to the States!), mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**While Rosalie would have liked nothing more than to slam things around, she thought better than to take her emotions out on her cello. She placed it reverently back into its case and quickly gathered her bag, not wanting to socialize with the loitering musicians in the green room. Her mind ran on a continuous loop of Edward Cullen's smirk and nonchalant dismissal. _His loss, not mine. _If she repeated it enough times in her head, maybe she'd believe it. The majority of the musicians who surrounded her respected the cool, aloof vibe she emitted as she began to make her way out of the room. Of course, there was always that one person who could never read personal spatial cues and when she got to the door, she found Mike Newton directly blocking her path.

"Rosalie, are you meeting us out later tonight? Archibald Blues?" Mike smiled easily, making her frosty exterior melt, if only a little bit. Mike must not have been able to read nonverbal cues either, or perhaps he just didn't care. Either way, it was impressive that he'd take the chance, and with such a cheerful disposition, no less.

She frowned, not at his question, but rather at the memory of the last time she'd been to the jazz bar. Toward the end of the summer after a particularly hellish wedding during which the bride was drunk and staggering down the aisle, the musicians of both the string quartet and the reception band agreed to meet at Archibald Blues. One might have thought that Rosalie would have learned something from watching the bride's weaving; she was usually able to keep herself under control in any and all circumstances. However, the summer night she'd been at Archie's, the drinks were flowing and somehow, someway, she wound up on stage with the band, belting out _Bei Mir Bis Du Schön_. "That place is evil, Mike."

Mike snorted as he grabbed his bag. "Not the _place, _Rose. Just the alcohol behind the bar that made its way into _you_." Mike had been in attendance at both the wedding and Archie's for that one-night-only performance. Since then, Rosalie had been much more cautious about her choice in beverages. Nearly five months later, she still couldn't think about Jack Daniel's without getting slightly nauseated. Maybe playing it safe wasn't such a bad way to go. After all, she'd been burned by the Paganini decision, too.

Yet, even still, she felt the urge to push herself out of her comfort zone. _Done playing it safe, Rose._

"I'll be there."

She reasoned, she'd steer clear of the Jack and his friends Jim and Johnnie, knowing that there was nothing wise about any of those three.

Calling her goodbyes over her shoulder, she walked to the front of the building. She was surprised to find a dog standing in the lobby, wagging his tail and watching her approach with what she considered to be knowing eyes. She looked around the lobby, expecting to find his owner, but there was only this dog who reminded her of the Shepard mix she'd had as a child. Resting the cello case near the wall, she placed her satchel next to it before dropping to her knees. The dog immediately came over to her and she tentatively held out her hand for the dog to sniff. Instead of stopping at her hand, he continued walking toward her, nuzzling his head into her shoulder.

The affection this dog showed her, an animal she'd never met, surprised her and she found herself getting a bit teary. He seemed to know exactly what she needed in that moment; the gentle understanding he offered, as if he knew this human was disappointed with how things had turned out, gave her comfort. Rosalie's arms wrapped loosely around his neck and whispered, "My cat is going to be mad at me when I come home smelling of you." Even so, she snuggled in more and allowed herself to have this moment with the dog that reminded her of home. "Where do you belong anyway? I'm assuming that someone around here is your owner."

The dog seemed to understand her words and he pulled away from their embrace, licking her hand once before turning and disappearing down the hallway into one of the offices. Rosalie considered following him but was comforted by the fact that he seemed to know this place as though it was his own. Standing once more, she glanced around the lobby furtively, somewhat embarrassed by her emotional breakdown. Thankfully, there was no one that bore witness, other than the dog.

Mr. Holland was not impressed by the lingering scent when she got home. In fact, Rosalie got the cold shoulder, tail in the air and a quick huff away; all the while, she offered apologies at getting love from another animal, and a dog, at that. "Mr. Holland, I'm sorry but it was a crap day and he was right there." If it were possible, the cat looked even more pissed off at the fact that a _dog_ was allowed in the theater. _Whatever happened to animal equality?_

She went on to tell Mr. Holland about the audition and the rudeness of the conductor who apparently thought he was God's gift to music. Mr. Holland permitted Rosalie's fingers closer and an occasional scratch behind the ears as she spoke. "_He_ needs surgery to have the stick removed from his ass. Apparently he'd rather people play easy pieces. He probably would have chosen something like Minuet in F Major if he were auditioning." She snorted, rolling her eyes. "F _him._" She rolled her eyes at herself then. "Fuck you, Edward Cullen." It felt good to say. Even if she couldn't say it to his face, the thought was out there, floating in the world. His face kept flashing before her and if he wasn't such an asshole, she might have found him attractive. Too bad he _was_ an asshole.

"Karma's a bitch, right Mr. Holland?"

That evening, Rosalie wrapped herself in her red wool jacket, thinking how the last time she'd been at Archie's she'd been wearing the same summer dress that she'd donned for the disastrous wedding. The fall ushered in the normal crisp chill to the air but winter had been threatening to arrive earlier than normal. With global warming, fall usually had the upper hand but winter was relentless that year and insisted on making itself known. _Well, the weather may be different, but I can't deny both trips to Archie's followed a pretty disastrous day_, she thought. Once more, she looped the knit scarf around her neck, adding a matching hat that she'd made. Tapping her index finger to the picture, she said her goodbyes to her parents and Mr. Holland before pulling on leather gloves. Mr. Holland looked not at all concerned while she prepared to leave, and she wondered if the cat even gave her a second thought while she was gone.

Hailing a taxi, she arrived outside of Archibald Blues before she had much time to think. Pleasantries were exchanged with the cabbie; some days these were the only people she interacted with at all and she was good at small talk. It seemed that lately, all she had been doing was going through the motions, pleasantries and meaningless conversation. Rosalie worried that it wasn't right that the most meaningful conversations she had were with her cat. _I'm going to wind up a cat lady, _she thought bitterly. _A cello-playing cat lady._

There was an imposing duo standing at the door, checking identifications and collecting money as a cover charge to pay the band of the evening. One look at Rosalie and she was waved directly in, both ID and money unimportant when it came to a person that looked like she did. If she realized it, she didn't acknowledge it as she swept through the door and began to remove the garments that shielded her from the cold to hang on the rack near the entrance. The lights were low and the room was smoky, as was expected of any good jazz bar. The city had recently discussed passing a law to be smoke-free and establishments like Archie's were looking for an out. While smoke wasn't good for anyone's lungs, people who came to a jazz bar expected certain atmospheric elements; a jazz bar simply wouldn't feel like a _jazz bar _sans smoke.

Looking toward the stage, she caught sight of one of the musicians. The sandy-haired man held his choice of instrument in one hand, while discussing something with the other men in the ensemble. He squinted for a moment before the recognition lit in his eyes and he quickly spoke to the other members of the band. He counted off, and licked his lips before placing them to the trumpet's brass mouthpiece. The opening notes to _Bei Mir Bis Du Schön _were not unfamiliar to her and she good-naturedly threw her middle finger in the air while he gestured for her to join them onstage with a flash of his trumpet.

_Motherfucker, Jasper Whitlock._ Rosalie lowered her hand to her hair but kept her finger prominently displayed as she walked to the bar, ignoring the invitation. She had met Jasper that fateful summer evening, when she decided it would be a good idea to band crash and slurred into his ear the song she wanted to sing. After she brought down the house with her impromptu number, Jasper and his girlfriend decided she was in no condition to get herself home, so they took a taxi with her to make sure she got there safely. She woke up the next morning to find an empty trash bin near the side of her bed and a post-it note with a phone number and the names _Jasper and Alice_ written in bubbly handwriting underneath. And _Hope you don't spew. But if you're going to spew, spew into this _scrawled in Jasper's chicken scratch. She didn't see Jasper and Alice nearly enough but that was of her own accord; she didn't want to burden their coupleness with her singleness. She had called to thank them for their kindness and they insisted on meeting her at a local diner for a greasy lunch. Rosalie didn't normally _do_ greasy but once in a while she indulged.

She didn't spot Alice in the audience as she made her way through the crowd but waved to Mike and the oboist she'd seen earlier at the audition. Her smile was genuine as she exchanged hellos with other familiar faces along the way, yet not once did she stop to make conversation. She decided to play it safe with a bottle of beer, instead of a mixed drink. She didn't plan on staying long, she had a class to teach the following morning, but it was always good to be seen out in the community. Looking around she saw a few empty booths but opted to take a bar stool.

After all, why would she take a booth for a party of one?

[~*~*~]

Edward always felt alone when he walked through the thick wooden door of Archibald Blues. The reason was, he had to leave Jack at home and this was one of the few places, besides the grocery store and the dentist's office, where Jack didn't accompany Edward. He bore being left behind better than Edward bore the leaving. He'd spared Edward his guilt-inducing puppy stare as he watched his owner change into faded Levi's, a blue button down shirt and charcoal gray sweater. He didn't even budge from his spot when Edward put on his coat and opened the front door to leave.

Yes, Edward was feeling very lonely that night indeed.

The glowing lights of the bar and warm laughter of its patrons cheered him a little. It was the anticipation of playing with his friend, Jasper, and his jazz band that really made him smile for the first time that day. He looked forward to Tuesday nights**.** Playing jazz piano at Archie's with Jasper and the guys made it easy to forget the pressures of his job. It also removed any chance Bella would drift into his thoughts that night. He didn't think of her often anymore, which was good. But once in a while...

He took off his coat and hung it by the door, then made his way toward the stage and Jasper.

"Edward! Have you come down off your virtuoso pedestal to play with us lowly minstrels?" Jasper teased.

"You dregs are my weekly reminder that I could be poor and starving, too," Edward teased back, but the gleam of friendship they shared was evident in their welcoming smiles and the special handshake they'd invented when in school together.

Jasper eyed him carefully as Edward moved to the piano, sat down and lifted the lid up on the keyboard. "Looks like the pedestal was awfully high today. Are the demands of waving a tiny, little white stick around, pretending to be important, proving to be too much, Maestro?" A memory of incensed blue eyes and hair the color of hay shot through Edward's mind like summer lightning, making him smirk before he could catch himself. Jasper caught it, though. Jasper always caught _everything_.

"What's this?" Jasper started as he leaned up against the side of the upright piano. "I know that devious grin, and I have to say it's a pleasure to see it again. So... let's have it," Jasper said, full of curiosity. Edward had been understandably morose since he and Bella split up, and the smirk he'd just seen on Edward's face was more emotional expression than Edward had displayed in months. He hoped it was a good sign.

Edward met his gaze dead on but kept quiet. He'd learned it was sometimes better to be silent and not offer fuel to Jasper's fire. He knew Jazz meant well, but the incident with Rosalie Hale was really nothing and not worth bringing up. In fact, he had no idea why she inspired so many automatic reactions in him; it was unsettling to say the least. He pursed his lips and let his eyes fall to the keys in front of him.

"Just the usual drama of auditions and divas. _You_ should know how that goes."

"Uh-huh. Okay, Cullen. Continue to be a tight-lipped prick," Jasper quipped and smiled as he pushed off the piano.

"Happily," Edward replied and brought his fingertips to the piano, pretending to make sure the instrument was in tune. Jasper moved back toward the center of the stage and told them to be ready to play in five.

Edward was glad the piano was tucked back in the corner of the stage. He enjoyed observing the crowd, and being in the back made it difficult for the crowd to see _him_. Most of the time, though, he let the music consume him and he gave himself up to it, happily escaping real life. For a little while anyway. The bar hadn't gotten busy yet, and they played a few old standards to warm up. As the first hour passed into the second, more people filtered through the front after handing over five bucks for the cover charge and their IDs to the doormen. He recognized a few of the musicians that had auditioned for him, which made him even more grateful for the cover of the dark corner. Mike Newton laughed easily with Jessica, the new oboist. There were others whose faces looked familiar but whose names he didn't know.

The band took a break, and Jasper turned to them to discuss the song line up for the evening. In mid-sentence, something caught his attention and Edward's eyes followed Jasper's, expecting to see Alice weaving her way through the crowd. Instead he saw Rosalie Hale. His mouth twisted into a devilishly playful smirk and he was astonished at fate's generosity, bringing them together again so soon. Jasper's smirk almost matched Edward's as he told them to play _Bei Mir Bis Du Schön_. As soon as Rosalie recognized the melody, she wholeheartedly flipped off Jasper, and the band. It seemed Jasper and Rosalie knew each other, and Edward's curiosity was immediately piqued.

During the next set break, Edward interrogated Jasper with an intensity that wasn't even close to nonchalant, which is what Edward was going for. After hearing about the details of Rosalie's solo imitation of the Andrews Sisters and her love affair with Jack Daniels, he bravely made his way toward her at the bar. After all, he didn't really _want_ to be her enemy, and he knew it was his fault she probably hated him. He wasn't sure what to say to her; something told him she wouldn't appreciate being bullshitted. He quickly decided he'd need a drink for whatever it was he was going to say.

A stiff one.

There was an empty stool next to her, because although Rosalie was very alluring, she wasn't exactly _inviting_. Truth be told, people could (and did) say the same thing about him. He slid his leg over the cheap black vinyl stool and sat down beside her as if their little spat earlier that day had never taken place. He didn't look directly at her; he was too busy trying to catch the eye of the bartender. He still needed that drink.

"Boy, you've got some nerve," she said incredulously, and he _almost_ cringed at the venom in her voice.

He looked her straight in the eye. "So I've been told." He waited for her response, which she didn't seem inclined to offer. She only glared icily at him, which secretly intrigued him. Here was this talented, beautiful, confident (and maybe a touch _proud_) woman who knew who he was, understood his influence in their musical sphere and yet wasn't intimidated by him. She wasn't kissing his ass, or looking for a handout, or trying to seduce him. He looked away from her cold blue eyes and managed to get the bartender's attention. He certainly wished then that he hadn't made himself her enemy.

The bartender came over and Edward ordered himself a seven and seven, and noticing Rosalie's beer was almost empty, quickly tacked on "...and a refill of whatever she's drinking," before Rosalie could protest. She huffed, but didn't argue, and Edward wondered hopefully and briefly if she was able to hold her tongue after all. Their drinks came and Rosalie sipped on her beer pensively.

"Why?" was all she said, but Edward knew exactly what she was asking.

"I told you why. Your shifts were sloppy."

"I beg to differ. I've been playing that pie-"

"_And_ you can't take criticism," he interrupted her. "Listening to my instruction isn't negotiable."

Her face fell ever so slightly and only for the briefest of moments before her chin shot up proudly. "Any other advice you can offer, Maestro Cullen?" Her tone was tense but sincere.

"Look," he said, softening his eyes as he looked at her. "You know you're talented. You need to tone it down a little. Let the music own you a little, and not be so confident. You should think about that and then come back next season and audition again," he suggested, but wasn't sure what to make of the expression on her face. "Of course, it's only advice. Take it or not," he offered just to cover his bases. She looked away and took a healthy gulp of beer.

"Well, I'll be very interested to hear your technique tonight on the piano, now that I know it's you back there. What a rare treat," she said trying to hide her sarcasm and failing.

"Wonderful, I'm looking forward to hearing your opinion of my Andrews Sisters repertoire." He smirked as she shot a murderous stare at Jasper. With that, Edward said goodbye to Rosalie Hale, picked up his drink and walked back to the piano.

He kept an eye on her from his tucked away little corner. She finished her beer, said her goodbyes to Mike Newton and the others, then left alone. He didn't get to play _Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree_ for her, but perhaps that was for the best.

The rest of the night, he thought about Rosalie Hale. Of her flashing eyes and rigid posture, born from years of sitting behind her cello. Her pride in her ability, which in his view, bordered on conceit. His fingers caressed the piano as he played he-hardly-knew-what, and for the first time since... he couldn't even remember, it wasn't the music that kept Bella at bay, it was a woman.

Not a girl.

A _woman_.

It was all very disconcerting.

When he got home he was still thinking about her, and as he took Jack for a quick walk before turning in for the night, he made a resolution. He would just _stop_ thinking about her. So he did, for the most part. Kind of. Not really. In fact he fell asleep trying to decide exactly what shade of blonde her hair was.

* * *

**krisbcullen** is our lovely beta.

**chele681, miztrezboo, and theheartoflife** are our lovely prereaders.

**Team Cellolie** - we love you always!

Looking for more Roseward? Check out **Filthy Roseward's** Selfless, Cold, and Composed (chapter fic) and **bookjunkie1975's** Sweet Distraction (one-shot).

Thank you so much for those who have loved us in every which way. Reviews, Alerts, Favorites. It makes our hearts sing _Bei Mir Bis Du Schön (it means that you're grand!)._


	3. Chapter 3

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**Edward almost overslept the next morning, but the unmistakable sensation of Jack's rough tongue on his hand finally forced him to stop ignoring the alarm. His routine started immediately: coffee, walk Jack, work out, eat, shower, then off to the concert hall. The routine brought him a sense of comfort and control. It had been a way to cope with his divorce, offering him something to focus on beside the fact that he was waking up alone. That was in the beginning, when he was mourning the loss of his marriage. In truth, their marriage hadn't _grown_ in years. Instead, he and Bella had outgrown each other. There would always be memories laced with joy and laughter mixed in with the stuff he'd rather not remember. They were still friends, even though they didn't speak often.

He felt out of sorts that morning but blamed it on his late start, briefly wondering why he hadn't woken up on time, what had thrown him off. Eying the baby grand in the living room as he left for his walk with Jack, he wished he had a moment to play, as it often helped him relieve stress. Then again, he hardly thought his neighbors would appreciate it at that early hour.

When he got to his office, he found an urgent email from Angela Weber waiting for him in his inbox. It was brief and said something about a family emergency and asked that he call her on her cell phone. Anxiety clutched at him. As he dialed the number she had given in the email, he hoped it wasn't anything serious. Part of him also wondered how much this was going to affect his orchestra; Angela was his first chair cellist.

The news was grim, and his heart went out to Angela and her family. Her mother had suffered a severe stroke, and Angela was flying back home to help care for her for the foreseeable future. Edward offered his genuine concern and told Angela to come back and audition for him when she was available to do so. As he hung up the phone, he made a mental note to call his mom later; news like this always put things in perspective. He shook it off by focusing on what this meant for his orchestra.

This put him in a very serious predicament. In a little more than a month, it would be opening night for the annual Holiday Concert. The repertoire wasn't necessarily difficult, but it would take time to get a new first chair cellist up to speed. He didn't have a second chair; that was the position he'd been holding auditions for. His third chair, Eric Yorkie, wasn't up to the challenge.

Flashing blue eyes and blonde hair danced briefly through his head, followed by precise fingers and rare passion for playing. He felt like Fate must be laughing her ass off watching the tapestry he had woven unravel. His lips twisted into a boyish smirk before they fell almost instantly. She'd _never_ accept. Maybe if he asked very, very sweetly. He found the pile of files on his desk and quickly rifled through them until he found hers. Opening it, he easily located her contact number on her resume.

He picked up the phone on his desk and, with the eraser end of his pencil, he precisely jabbed each numbered button in its dead center. He heard it ring.

"Hello?" a detached, musical voice answered.

"Miss Rosalie Hale?" He figured taking a more respectful tone wouldn't hurt.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Edward Cullen."

There was a pause. "_Maestro_ Cullen. What can I do for you?" she asked sweetly. A little too sweetly. Edward hated when he had a hard time differentiating between sarcasm and sincerity.

"I'd like to talk to you..." he stammered. _This would be easier in person_. If he were able to read her expressions, determine what she might be thinking, he'd be much better able to bargain with her. "Can we meet somewhere this afternoon?" he asked.

Another pause. "Yes, I think I'm available. Can you meet me at four o'clock?"

He ran through his schedule for the day. He might have to rearrange some things, but he'd make it work. "That will be fine. Do you have a preference as to where, Miss Hale?"

"Ummm...629 Oak Creek Drive. I'll meet you in front?"

"Excellent. Thank you, Miss Hale," he said, ready to hang up; no need to press his luck.

"What is this regarding? If I may ask." Sincerity or sarcasm, he couldn't tell.

"Of course. I'd like to discuss your future with this orchestra."

"I didn't realize there was anything to discuss after your comments yesterday." she said. He definitely detected annoyance. Just a smidgen.

"That was yesterday. Today, I'd like to discuss a proposal. Are you open to a discussion?"

Another, longer pause. "Yes. I'll see you at four, _Maestro_ Cullen."

[~*~*~]

Edward's last name lingered in the air as Rosalie placed the phone back on the charger. She couldn't help but shake her head at the turn of events. Mr. Holland jumped onto the counter beside her and they stared at one another, the cat's eyes widening as if to say, "Well, that was interesting and unexpected."

She nodded in agreement. It _was_ interesting and unexpected, as was he.

After the previous morning's audition, she'd figured that her interactions with Edward Cullen would be few and far between. That would have been fine with her but then, there he was again. First at Archie's. The unexpectedness of his presence threw Rosalie for a loop. She did her best to make it through the conversation. She reminded herself that, while they were no longer on his turf, she should still monitor her words. His stature in the music community was significant, even if she'd found his conduct to be small and petty. The conversation was lukewarm, at best, but she couldn't deny the heat that coursed through her when he found his way into the empty bar stool next to her.

Edward Cullen inexplicably angered and intrigued her, all in the same breath. She wanted to have nothing and everything to do with him.

That scared her more than she could say.

She'd made a quick escape from Archie's the night prior, yet their conversation was still bouncing around her mind. After she stopped being angry at his dismissal, she could see what he meant by her attitude. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten the feedback, but it was decidedly the most blunt delivery she'd ever experienced. She knew that her pride sometimes got the best of her, but her pride was also one of the things that put passion in her playing. And none of that made what he had to say any easier to take; she'd heard it, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Once he'd returned to the stage, she'd decided the right call was to head home.

If she had stayed, she might have had more to drink, especially with the knowledge that he was there. And drinking more was _not _what she needed in that situation. No matter how well Edward Cullen touted his piano playing skills for _Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree_, she didn't need to share any more performances with her peers. Edward had already seen her lay her heart on the line once that day; she wasn't ready to open herself up to anyone again, especially not influenced by alcohol. Pushing her way through the crowd toward the door, she said quick goodbyes to familiar faces in the crowd. Bundled into her coat, scarf, and gloves, she glanced toward the back corner of the stage once more, seeing the pianist bent over the ivory keys of the upright.

Her body returned to Mr. Holland and her cozy little apartment, but her mind never left him.

And now he had called. Her curiosity was piqued and she wondered what was so urgent that he'd need to speak to her in person rather than on the phone. Her days were never the same, always a class here, and lesson there. On this particular day she had afternoon classes to teach, two in a row, then a break from four to seven, before giving a private cello lesson at a student's home. Auditions for the State Regional Orchestra were at the end of January and a few high school cellists in the area had hired her to assist with technique, transitions, and audition pieces. Of course, after her own audition, she couldn't help but second-guess if she was really the one who should be assisting others.

She'd taken a shower after returning from the smoky bar, because while a jazz bar was atmospheric with its lingering smoke, she just smelled like an ashtray. She attempted to cleanse her body of the effect that he had on her, her blood from the cologne-scented oxygen she was able to breathe, under the smoke of the bar. Come morning, she tried a different tactic and took a bath instead, trying valiantly to relax her muscles and her mind. The tub was a tad too small for her long body, but she did her best to unwind and erase the arrogant smirk and the indifferent green eyes from her memory.

She feared what her reaction would be when she met him in front of the school. Hopefully the cold air would be a slap in the face she'd need to keep a cool head, to remain detached. She knew she needed to give him a chance, to hear him out and keep her temper under control.

Her cello called to her from its resting place on her bed, its siren song luring her to play once more. She didn't have much time before she needed to get to the school, but she knew that before she could face him, before she could spread her love of music to others, she needed to remind herself of that love. The cello whispered promises of relief, of understanding, of contentment. Once more, it found home, resting on her thigh. Exhaling loudly through her nose, she closed her eyes and gave herself a pep talk. She hated doubting herself, it was not in her nature and it wasn't how she operated. The fact that Edward Cullen made her doubt herself did peculiar things to her psyche, to her very being. It wasn't so much that he was critical of her; she'd been dealing with critics her entire career. No, it was the _way_ he presented the information, the smugness and the condescending attitude that permeated everything he did and said. Not only to her, but to everyone. Their phone conversation and the fact that he made reference to her possible future with the Philharmonic had her mind racing, trying to figure out what he could possibly want to discuss.

_Play._

Briefly she paused, considering what would bring her out of the funk, out of this Edward Cullen-induced haze, and back to the music, to her love.

Massenet. _Meditation_ from Thais.

As she played, she could hear the absent piano notes accompanying her cello, and although she tried to resist, her mind formed the vision of him. He sat on a piano bench, his fingers gently caressing the keys, his eyes following her as she leaned to and fro, feeling the notes with her soul. Her solo song became a duet; she played with the _idea_ of him. Once she'd finished the song, she was more in control of herself. She opened her eyes. All that remained was the ghost of his phantom notes.

Rosalie was ready. Ready to see him. Ready to discover why he insisted upon speaking to her in person.

"Only one way to find out." From the cat's vantage point as her audience, perched on the window ledge, Mr. Holland nodded in agreement.

[~*~*~]

Time skipped merrily along, as did Rosalie with her class of toddlers and preschoolers and their caregivers. She'd learned never to assume that it was just mommies in the classroom; there were nannies, and a few grandmas as well.

Near the end of the second forty-five minute session, Rosalie found the starting note of the aptly titled "Goodbye Song" on her silver metal pitch pipe. As soon as it flashed under the fluorescent lights, it called them to attention, something not to be underestimated for a room full of little ones. They lit up, each of them wanting to see the small circular instrument that made the noise. Quickly pocketing it, she started singing in her rich alto voice, "Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye! I'm so sad to see you go. Lots of hugs, from up high…" She flung her hands up toward the ceiling and made her voice abnormally high. "…to way down low." Again showing them visually the change in pitch, her hand went down to the ground, her voice following suit. The children mimicked her movements and giggled at the silly faces she made with each line of the familiar song. Her voice was muffled by the children who clambered into her lap, wanting to be the first of the group to get hugs from Miss Rosalie. She continued to sing as she received hug after hug, "We say 'so long,' 'farewell,' 'adios.' I wonder who I'll miss the most..." Going around the room, each child's name was sung. The ones who were old enough sang the names along with Miss Rosalie. The parents made their best attempts, testing their memory recall skills, which they lamented weren't the same since having kids.

She felt eyes searing her and she turned to see a figure standing just outside the doorway. It wasn't unusual to have visitors, but they usually came closer to the beginning of class. Caregivers and children often came by to a class to check it out before signing up for the semester. Rosalie always welcomed them with a smile and handed them some sort of instrument, a scarf to dance with, or a spot along the edge of the play parachute they were using in class. People new to the class were always a bit thrown by the props that she used, but Rosalie found that children used all five senses to learn. The tactile objects helped them feel the music, the way she felt the music while playing her cello. There was nothing better than seeing a child dancing in time, shaking bells or spinning with a scarf, in their own little world.

There was something different about this man though. Perhaps it was the fact that she rarely had men attend her class. Regardless, it caused her to do a double-take and her eyes widened slightly when she realized it was Edward Cullen. Glancing secretly at her watch, she thought she might have been behind schedule but rather saw that _he_ was ten minutes early. _Well, he asked for it. _Smiling brightly, she waved a hand, motioning for him to enter the room. He looked a bit unsure as he walked through the door, going no further than the door frame and leaning his back against it. _Is the Maestro showing fear?_ His demeanor was quite different from the man Rosalie had encountered yesterday; she chuckled inwardly that he was now on her turf. His coat was draped over his forearm and her eyes quickly did an inventory. She took in his dark green cashmere sweater, which, she noted, made his eyes stand out even more than they did on their own, and slacks. Hastily, she looked away, turning back to the class. When she did, she noticed that most of the women in the room were checking him out, too. And they weren't nearly as discreet as she'd been.

Clasping her hands in front of her, she asked the children, "Who's ready for cleaning and then hand stamps?" Passing out the hand sanitizer gave her a task to do, something to take her attention from him. She reminded herself what was important in that moment; her class, the children.

"Miss Rosalie? What-what-what stamp is it today? Is it a doggy like lastertime?" Three year old Sammy bounced in front of her, tugging at her shirt with each bounce. She smiled at his conglomeration of _last time_ and _yesterday_ as she quickly pressed her hand to her chest so she didn't wind up flashing the children, the caregivers, and... _him._

"Not a dog this time, Sam-I-Am. I have a star for you today." He held his tiny hand toward her and she pressed the rubber stamp on the pad before pressing it to his skin. "Bah-bum," she sang on the resting tone, Sam chiming in.

The children were naturally curious as well. Plus, they didn't have the inhibitions that the adults came to form over the years. They stared at Edward, but their questions were directed to the person they knew, Rosalie. It was one of the many reasons Rosalie enjoyed teaching them so much: they missed nothing, their minds were constantly thirsty for _more_.

"Miss Rosalie?" Emily pulled on her shirt after she received her stamp, whispering to her conspiratorially, "Who's that man?"

Rosalie leaned toward Emily and stage-whispered, "That's Mister Edward. He plays music, too." She continued to press stamps onto the children's hands but secretly, Rosalie was interested in seeing how Edward would handle the children. The music commonality was all it took for the kids to surround Edward, firing questions at him. The caregivers stood back, watching the kids as they encircled Edward. Some started forward in an attempt to rescue him, but Rosalie just shook her head slightly and shrugged.  
"What kinda musical instra-instra-instruments do you play?"

Edward looked around, appearing almost sheepish. "Well, I play the piano," he offered.

Rosalie chimed in. "Oh, he's being shy. He can play _lots_ of instruments. _And_ he's a conductor for the Philharmonic!"

The children _oohed_ at the fancy terms. Leah's tiny hands found her hips and she tilted her head to the side, her silky pigtails flipping. "What does _that _mean?"

Rosalie's smile was laced with saccharine. "He waves around a little stick and tells other people what to do." One of the caregivers snorted, trying to cover a laugh. They didn't know the extent or reason of the strife between Edward and Rosalie, but they'd be blind not to sense the underlying tension below the surface, even while the two adults _played nicely_ in front of the children.

"We have a piano right there, Mister Edward." Leah pointed at the grand piano that held a prominent place in the room as though he could have, somehow, missed it. "Can you play us a song?"

As much as Rosalie wanted to see how this would shake out, the teacher for the next class had arrived and it was time to wrap up. Edward seemed to sense that they needed to clear from the room, so he turned to the children and knelt on a knee. He was never one to let an opportunity like this one pass him by. "I'll tell you what. How about I talk to Miss Rosalie about when I can come back again? Plus, next time I'll even bring my _stick_, which is really called a baton." This wasn't an offer he'd dare to make, except that he was trying to get in Rosalie's good graces. He had no experience with children. They made him nervous. Almost as nervous as the prospect of the conversation he was about to have.

The caregivers and children quickly dispersed after Edward's promise, and Rosalie packed her things quickly, having the routine down to a science. She closed her bag and looked down, feeling him approach behind her.

"Well, that was fun," he growled in her ear quietly, his breath warm against her neck.

Rosalie was caught off-guard by his close proximity, but she'd never let him see it. "I never said you should come inside. You did that on your own accord."

"I was a few minutes early, so I wandered in. I hope that's all right. This... isn't what I expected I would find."

"Well, I like to keep people guessing." She didn't know why she said it. It wasn't something that she normally did, but with him, she felt as though she had to stay on the defense. She turned, still finding him abnormally close. They stood eye to eye, neither of them breathing for a moment. "Now, why don't you tell me why you're here. _Maestro._"

He took a deep breath and a step back. "I have a proposition for you, Miss Hale."

* * *

**krisbcullen** is our lovely beta. She also speaks a healthy dose of German! For those wondering about the song title in the last chapter, it's actually Yiddish. :)

**chele681, miztrezboo, and theheartoflife** are our lovely prereaders. They rock the casbah.

**Team Cellolie** - we love you always, pretty ones! Hev1999 asked for an early update since it's Friday where she is and well... we liked the idea!

**Reviews are better than Cool Whip in coffee (and that's saying a lot!). We love hearing from you!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**"Is there somewhere nearby we can talk?" he asked, as he wasn't familiar with this part of the city.

"You said something about a proposition…" she crossed her arms over her chest, a bemused smile on her full lips. When he didn't offer any response, she finally answered his question. "Sure. There's a coffee shop not too far away." She turned to lead the way out of the school and over to the Starbucks a few blocks down the street.

Jack, his tail wagging and smiling a goofy grin, was waiting patiently for them outside, where Edward had fastened his leash to a tree.

"This is _your_ dog?" Rosalie asked suddenly.

"Yes, this is Jack. Jack, meet Miss Hale," he said, noticing her glare with surprise. Edward didn't understand the annoyance in Rosalie's eyes; perhaps she wasn't a dog person. "He was a stray," Edward quickly continued as he unfastened the leash from the tree. Maybe hearing Jack's sad story would soften her up. "He was so thin and skittish when I first found him. It was weeks before he would get close enough to take food from me."

Once freed from the tree, Jack moved toward Rose and nosed her hand. Edward was surprised by Jack's easy acceptance of her. He wasn't as shy as he used to be, but it still normally took him time to warm up to strangers. He had no such qualms about Rose, though. She knelt down and her hands automatically scratched in all of Mr. Holland's favorite spots. _Dogs and cats can't be all that different, after all,_ she thought. "Hi, buddy," Rose greeted him. He greeted her back with a nice slobbery kiss on her cheek. Rose chuckled and wiped her cheek with her hand.

Edward watched and couldn't help but smile. He loved when Jack wiggled his way into someone's heart. Bella hadn't been overly thrilled when he'd brought Jack home that night six years ago, and they'd never really bonded. He watched Rose stroke Jack with the skilled, knowledgeable hands of a pet lover and decided it must not have been a dislike of dogs that earned him that glare. He had hoped the visual cues he would get meeting her face to face would help with the discussion he was about to have. However, his complete inability to read the motive behind her expressions left him somewhat disarmed, a feeling he was not at all familiar – or comfortable – experiencing.

"Shall we?" he asked, offering his hand to help her stand. She put her gloved hand in his and let him pull her up. She reached up to adjust her hat, giving her an excuse to look away from Edward's intense green eyes as they set off down the street, walking three abreast. Jack was in the middle, his head bobbing back and forth between them as they made awkward small talk.

"Do you have any pets, Miss Hale?" he asked, remembering how she seemed to know just where Jack liked to be scratched.

"Yes, I have a cat. Mr. Holland," she replied tersely. She was growing exasperated with the awkward silences and idle chatter, wondering why this infernal, well-dressed man with his angular good looks wouldn't just tell her what he wanted so she could get on with her life.

"Mr. Holland. My mother loves that movie." When Edward mentioned his mother, a soft smile found its way to his tense mouth. It didn't escape Rosalie's notice, even though she wished it had. It was much easier to be annoyed with him when he had that smug look on his face.

"How old is he?" Edward asked after a moment. Trying to be casual. Small talk didn't suit him.

"Mr. Holland is a she, and I've had her since I graduated from college," she replied. She did not offer a reason for naming her female cat after a Richard Dreyfuss character, despite Edward's curiously cocked eyebrow.

Edward was socially awkward on his best days. On this particular day, when he was facing an unbelievably uncomfortable conversation, he couldn't help but cringe at his pathetic attempts to fill the silence. The harmless questions continued as they walked, and it was not lost on him that she told him as little as possible. Even her answers were non-answers. For some reason, even the age of her cat was off-limits to him.

He could hardly fault her for that after what had happened the day before. Then again, her poking fun at him for "waving his little stick around and acting important" just now made them even in his eyes. He bristled in irritation at the memory, and at Rosalie's continued efforts to make an already uncomfortable situation even more so.

The coffee shop wasn't busy and Edward was grateful for the tables and chairs lined up under heat lamps on the sidewalk outside. If they could stay outside, at least he'd have a friendly face at the table for the conversation. He led Rose to a table and began to tie Jack to his chair.

"I'll hold his leash. I don't mind," Rosalie offered. Edward smiled and handed her the lead.

"Thank you. Now, what can I get you?" he asked.

"A tall chai latte, please." He nodded and left her sitting with Jack.

She leaned down to Jack and whispered in his floppy ear. "And so we meet again. Let me ask you, is he always so uptight?" He answered with a long drawn out yawn. Rose chuckled again. "A real bore, huh?" she said and leaned back in the chair. A moment later Edward returned with their drinks. She took the lid off of her cup, blowing on the steaming chai and wondered why he was staring down at his cup of what appeared to be coffee in disappointed disgust. He looked up and caught her watching him, but before she could ask what was wrong, he spoke.

"Miss Hale, no doubt you're wondering why I asked to see you."

"Yes. Indeed." She kept blowing on her chai, peering at him over the rim with hardened eyes. Rosalie was determined to remain annoyed if she could.

"Something beyond my control has arisen and I find myself in need of another cellist. Despite our rough start yesterday and your… _other_ challenges, I'd like you to fill the seat," he said. He gave his cup another annoyed grimace before tacking on, "If you're interested, that is."

She didn't respond, just watching him, pondering, thinking and taking her sweet time about it. There was something else in her eyes too,_ perhaps a little spark of determination,_ he wondered.

"Which chair is it, may I ask?"

"First."

"What happened to your first chair? That wasn't the seat I auditioned for," she said. Edward briefly related the reason for Angela's hasty departure. Edward then decided he should be upfront about his expectations of her and her time.

"This will require a lot of sacrifices on your part. You will need a great deal of additional practice in order to get you up to speed on the cello solos coming up. Remember, my instruction isn't negotiable. When you are on my time, what I say goes. That must be understood."

His piercing green eyes scrutinized her unreadable expression. She looked calm and unaffected, as if she'd been told the day's weather forecast. Edward was surprised by her serenity given what he'd seen of her temper, but he wasn't one to mince words. She needed to understand what working with him would mean, what he expected of her.

"I understand, Mr. Cullen, but why me?" she questioned. "As you made clear… _several_ times yesterday… my performance was decidedly _lacking_ in certain elements, disqualifying me for second chair…" She didn't complete the thought, but Edward knew that she was not going to let this go without him eating at least a little bit of crow. Her eyes were wide and innocent. Her mouth however, barely concealed a satisfied smirk. Edward sighed. This woman was beyond conceited and infuriating and beautiful and...

"You have talent, Miss Hale. As I'm _sure_ you are aware," he said flatly, before he hesitantly sipped his coffee, grimacing before the cup reached his lips.

"I had talent yesterday, too," she returned.

"Agreed," he sighed. "Circumstances have changed and I have my reasons. Are you interested or not?"

He wasn't prepared to explain to her that, _yesterday_, he wasn't willing to invest the time necessary to teach her self-discipline, simply for her to be just another cellist in his orchestra. But he was willing to make that investment if she was willing to be _first_ chair, and make a long term commitment to him and the orchestra. He saw and admired her obvious gift. If he could only break her of her bullheadedness, she could be not just excellent, but _magnificent_. He saw it in her.

She was silent for a moment, thinking, sipping on her chai.

"What time are rehearsals?"

"Nine o'clock in the morning, Tuesday through Thursday. Performances are Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings, for the most part. Mondays off. Of course as I mentioned, I'd need additional rehearsals from you in the beginning. If you'd be willing to stay a few extra hours each day, I'm sure you'll be where I need you to be within a month."

The idea of extra rehearsals alone with him filled her with vexation; the two of them alone enduring grueling rehearsals would lead to raw nerves. Yet, she felt she had to prove that she deserved what he was offering her. It was a challenge she couldn't ignore, to show this arrogant, debonair Edward Cullen exactly what she was made of.

"I'll agree on two conditions," she said.

Edward eyed her suspiciously. He hated the fact that she was in a position to negotiate terms, but he had no other viable options, so he quirked an eyebrow and invited her to share her conditions. "Yes?"

"I'll agree to take your _direction_ if we work out a rehearsal schedule that allows me to continue teaching my classes, and if you keep your promise to the kids to come play for them. Oh, and wave your little stick around. Mustn't forget _that_ part," she added smugly and hid her smile behind her cup of chai. Edward only grumbled incoherently.

"Agreed, Miss Hale," he said grudgingly. Silence filled the space between them. They continued to sit there together, Jack curled up between their feet under the tiny table. They made inconsequential small talk, the kind one makes when the matter of business has been discussed and there's nothing left to speak of with a stranger. Edward dared not say too much for fear of saying something he oughtn't. _Besides, I'm not interested in her or where she came from_, he lied to himself. So instead he sipped his horrid Cool Whip free coffee in disappointment, while Rosalie savored her chai's velvety smooth flavor and rather enjoyed watching Edward's socially uncomfortable misery.

_Yes_, she thought to herself, _this should be very interesting indeed._

[~*~*~]

"To close, let's work on Dvořák, Cello Concerto in B minor. Miss Hale, if you please?"

The musicians leafed through their sheet music, while Rosalie stood from her place amongst the line of cellos, gracefully making her way to the soloist's chair. The violinist had placed it next to Edward's podium at the start of the rehearsal, each soloist taking his or her turn in the chair. She'd not yet had the chance to sit there, flanked to the conductor's podium. Granted, she'd imagined it many times in the past week, rehearsing non-stop in her apartment and the small practice rooms of the hall.

Rosalie had watched Edward closely through the rehearsal. From the moment that he walked in the airy rehearsal room, her eyes were upon him, finding _him_ out of all the people who surrounded her. She watched as he placed his travel mug on an empty chair behind him and as Jack was rewarded with a good scratch behind the ears before Edward motioned to him to lay down with a flat palm held parallel to the ground. Her eyes flashed in response to the baton and his movements, the white stick an extension of his arm, much like her bow and cello were an extension of her body. His movements were crisp when needed, slow and nearly dance-like at other times. A wayward piece of hair fell forward, over his forehead, as he moved and soon after they had started the session, he'd stripped off the knit sweater he'd worn, looking far more casual in a black t-shirt and jeans. The left sleeve of his t-shirt was slightly pushed up and she was able to see his bicep tense with his movements. _Just doing my job. _Hell, he_ told_ her to watch him and she was working very hard on her listening skills.

In opposition, Edward was doing everything in his power _not _to look at Rosalie Hale. She made her way to the chair beside where he stood and he finally allowed himself to look at her. Her hair was pulled back, clips on both sides and a ponytail. _Wheat._ He'd settled on the color of wheat for her hair. Sitting rigidly in the chair, she looked up at him, her eyes sparkling in the low fluorescent lights. Though they were not bright, somehow the light found her eyes and he saw determination and vigor. Rosalie slowly tapped her ring finger twice against her cello as he watched her. He was perplexed as to the reason why, but he didn't dare ask.

Within her, he saw what so many others seemed to lack in music. They were technically more than capable, but somehow there was a loss of love somewhere along the way. Maybe they weren't playing for themselves. He reasoned that he'd rather have a musician with too much passion than not enough. Passionate people let their emotions rule them, but as long as those emotions were working for and not against him and his orchestra, he encouraged it, channeling the passion into its correct place. Technique could be taught; passion could not.

Clearing his throat, he forced himself to look away from her, busying himself by flipping through his own sheet music. The notes on the page were just that until the musicians made them more. The baton was clicked against the top of his music stand and he brought both hands up, signaling to the musicians to prepare. After counting off the beats, Edward cued the French horns, the section raising their instruments in unison. A measure after, Jessica's oboe sang out, the violins quickly echoing the sentiment. "Lovely, Jessica!" Edward praised as the other musicians chimed in, the tempo increased as he waved his baton to guide the crescendo grew as he waved his baton to guide the build.

Rosalie's cue came quickly and she vaguely heard the woodwinds playing behind her as she leaned into her cello, the bow lined up with the f-holes, her fingers pressed against the board. Throughout the session, she'd curiously taken in Edward's interactions with the other musicians. It had not escaped her attention that while the pompousness she'd experienced was present, he chose a more relaxed approach when pointing out what he considered to be a performance error. Often times, he would stop the group's playing and approach a musician's chair, quietly murmuring about pacing or a flubbed note, pointing at the sheet music on the stand before them. The session was rigorous and Edward proved to be very much a perfectionist, although Rosalie had expected nothing less.

Periodically, with other soloists, he had used his baton to indicate on the sheet music where he was looking for a different interpretation or tone. Those exchanges were also quiet; in spite of her proximity to the podium, she could rarely hear the feedback he offered, but she noted again that he was patient, if still demanding and swift, with his comments.

She expected the same interactions when practicing her solo. They hadn't been able to match their schedules up to that point, so they had not yet had any individual sessions to work on the piece. Regardless, she'd been hard at work since getting the sheet music from him at their Starbucks meeting. He'd brought it along in anticipation that she would say yes.

Surprise and a flash of disappointment coursed through her veins when he barked out her surname. "Build on that _note_," followed by a gritted out, "and don't forget the resting note." He didn't look at her when he said it, just called her out in front of the other members of the orchestra. She tried to rationalize his behavior at first; perhaps her predecessor had preferred it this way. Perhaps he was frustrated as it was the last piece and they were running late in regards to time. But he carried on this way throughout the piece, each time saying her name as though it was a curse and following it quickly with some sort of criticism. Each time she bit her tongue. Each time she hoped that the blood rushing through her ears in anger did not make its way to the surface and show off its presence in a tell-tale blush. Each time she reminded herself of her promise to take his instruction, unchallenged.

His comments weren't off-base and, most of the time, she could appreciate his critique. Yet, it was difficult for her to completely lose herself in the music this way, constantly being on her toes and waiting for the next command or criticism to be hurled her way. She didn't play at her best with that type of feedback and it only instigated more negative feedback on his part.

The rehearsal ended with little fanfare and he dismissed the musicians with a wave of his hand and a brief "See you tomorrow." Rosalie was out of her chair like a shot from a cannon, quickly making her way to the practice room where she'd stashed her case before the schedule session. She had arrived early to practice and she returned to her sanctuary once more. The small room housed a piano and its bench and a solitary chair. The door closed behind her, but not before Jack slipped through, having followed her silently out of the auditorium and down the hall.

She turned, startled and a bit unnerved to find Jack staring at her. Rosalie reasoned that it wasn't _his _fault that his owner was a rude and pompous ass. He stood next to her, waiting silently for acknowledgment. Once he was satisfied with the behind-the-ear scratches, he rolled onto his back and offered his belly to Rosalie, looking for belly rubs. Rosalie remembered what Edward had said about Jack being a stray and knew it must have taken him quite some time to be comfortable submitting to a human like this. She rewarded him with belly rubs and coos, before finally telling him that she needed to practice more, otherwise his owner would have her head on a platter. There might have been some colorful language dispersed within that conversation, as well.

Pulling her hair from the ponytail, she swept it to the right side, over her shoulder. She was getting a headache, and although she knew it was psychosomatic, the pull of the clips and bands seemed to contribute to the tension beginning to pulse at her temples. Her cello found its home again and she poured her soul into her playing, Edward's voice ringing in her ears. _Build on that note, don't forget the resting note. Slow it down, no reason to hurry. _While she didn't agree with his method of singling her out, that voice spoke to her during her solo practice, made her think and understand more of what Dvořák was exuding through his notes.

The chair faced away from the door, which soundlessly swung open. The air in the room changed, the hairs on the back of her neck alerting her to his presence. She knew it was him without turning around, and her bow paused, mid-measure. The click of the door latching into place sounded loudly in her ears.

"I thought that these rooms were sound-proofed. How did you find us?" She spoke quietly and Jack stayed curled next to her foot, clearly not fazed by his owner's interruption of their one-on-one time.

"Jack left a trail of breadcrumbs. Well, one big grey breadcrumb, anyway." He held up the sweater he had shed earlier. "This was outside the door."

Rosalie's eyes met with the dog's and she muttered _traitor_ under her breath. Yes, he was Edward's dog, but she thought they'd bonded over the agreement that he was an uptight jerk. _Apparently, I now know where loyalties lie._

Pulling the piano bench from where it was neatly tucked under the upright, he sat, his back toward the keys, which was usual for him. Their eyes locked and for a moment, it seemed that all oxygen had been depleted from the room.

"Clearly, Jack has already made himself comfortable and while he has quite the discernible ear, he is unable to provide the necessary guidance. It's evident that we need to work together on your solo, among other things, so I believe I'll join you." He invited himself, which was his right and what she expected, but still, she was annoyed by what had happened earlier during the rehearsal. She continued to observe him, and he looked on, expectantly. "Do we have something to discuss before you continue your practice?"

Rosalie leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee, so that their faces were closer together. Her low alto voice was deceptively even. "Why did you feel it necessary to call out your criticism of my playing in front of everyone during the rehearsal? I noticed that you didn't do that to anyone other than me and I was wondering what made me so lucky."

Jack moved from his spot, finding a new place in between where the two sat, toe to toe. Edward's hand automatically went to scratch behind his right ear and Jack nudged Rosalie's hand with his nose, only satisfied when her fingers were scratching behind his left ear. The act of soothing Jack had an automatic effect on both of them; blood pressures lowering, the tension in the air dropped infinitesimally. Edward spoke. "It's _possible_ that I was testing your attitude within the group setting. Which you passed, with flying colors." He grimaced at their current conversation. "_This_ conversation leaves much to be desired, however, Miss Hale. This is _my_ orchestra and, my rehearsal space as well. Please don't forget that. We'll be in for quite a difficult few months if our interactions continue as such." Without thinking, Edward leaned toward her, his eyes pierced hers.

"I'm so glad that you're able to look at me. I thought there might be something wrong." Rosalie reminded herself to be polite. Polite, but firm. Her snarky comments were not becoming and would get her nowhere. "I don't believe I've given you any reason to question my awareness of what is _yours_, Mr. Cullen. I took your direction while we were in there," she motioned vaguely in the direction of the rehearsal hall. "I'll continue to do so while we're in here, but I will not tolerate being treated differently. I didn't say anything while we were in front of the orchestra and I waited until we were alone to speak to you. I'm simply asking for the same courtesy when at all possible. I would feel remiss if I didn't say anything."

She'd continued petting Jack, the soft warmth of his fur in her fingers helping her to keep calm and focused as she attempted to ask for the respect she felt common courtesy afforded her. "I'd apologize for pointing this out but-"

At that moment, they both moved their hands toward the center of Jack's head and their fingers touched.

The current that passed through them made them both internally gasp and simultaneously pull their hands back. Jack shrugged at the loss, feeling as though it was okay for them to ignore him for a bit and perhaps pay attention to one another. The moment was brief and over nearly before it had begun, but neither of them could deny that there was _something_ there. Denial outwardly was always possible, but not their innermost thoughts. That quiet whisper was the same in the back of both their minds. _Maybe this is the _more_ I'm searching for._

Rosalie's voice was softer this time. "Mr. Cullen, contrary to what you might believe, I value your feedback. I've already found your comments insightful and beneficial, in the brief time I was practicing here. I _do_ want to be here and I _do_ want to work with you." Nodding, she picked up her bow and brought her hand to the cello, once more tapping it twice with her ring finger.

"Good. Because I want you here." There were so many ways she could have taken this, so many ways he could have meant it. She didn't ask him to clarify. Instead, he turned to the piano, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he started to play the opening notes of the Dvořák.

"Shall we play, Miss Hale?"

* * *

**Krisbcullen **rights/writes our wrongs and we love her for it!

Missing Emmett in this story? Never fear! Our prereaders know how to write delicious Emmetts. ;) You can find these in our favorite stories.

**HeartofLife** – Rosalie/Emmett - The Long Way Home**  
Miztrezboo** – Rosalie/Emmett - Subway Strangers**  
Chele681** – Emmett/Jasper – Hard as a Rock

As always, written in honor of **Team Cellolie** who generously donated to FGB/Alex's Lemonade Stand.

**Reviews tug on our cello strings.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**_Rosalie Hale_. She was infuriating and stunning and talented and undeniably amazing and most importantly, annoyingly impossible to ignore. He caught himself thinking over their meeting in the little practice room that afternoon. Her complaint that he had singled her out, made an example of her in front of everyone, put a grin on his face. She had reproached him, confronted him, expressed her displeasure with how he'd treated her and in return, she'd gained his respect. She had taken his chastising in practice that day with complete grace, and he wasn't lying when he'd said he was testing her. None of that really mattered though. Not anymore. What counted was what happened _after_ she put him in his place. During the Dvořák.

His fingers danced over a quick scale to limber them before they found the first notes. Holding the baton all day gave his hand entirely the wrong arch, and he wanted to be limber for her. He wanted to challenge her, to give her his best and see if she could match it. He and Rosalie hadn't been able to work in any extra practices yet and he was eager to be alone with her, to really _hear_ her. He watched her bring the pad of her ring finger to her pale pink lips and tap her instrument twice, very quickly, very softly, before positioning her hand on the fingerboard of the cello. She looked up at him, indicating she was ready. _Curious ritual_, he thought. But he was a firm believer in ritual, in routine, so he didn't question it.

With a slight nod from him, they began together; soon they gave themselves over to the music, playing off each other, even improvising a little. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she played, and her absorption in the piece and her perfect execution transported him to another place, a place of brilliant light and the ethereal beauty of creation. And then, he felt it, the thing he lived for, the sensation he woke in search of every day. The world fell away. All he knew was this the haunting melody full of longing and apprehension, and Rose was there, creating it with him. Her bow pushed him forward with every arc, the notes of his piano the perfect accompaniment to her fingers dancing over the fingerboard with absolute, expressive freedom. A blissful moment of musical joy enveloped him, and he'd never been able to feel this when playing alone. He chanced a glance at Rosalie. She looked like she might have been experiencing the same thing.

So now she not only had his respect, but also the singular ability to render his soul completely helpless to music's beauty.

It was after eight that night when they ended their session and he was still in a euphoric haze. He and Jack walked her out of the hall and made sure she found a cab to take her home. Unthinking, his hand moved to her elbow as she stepped off the curb onto the street. He'd have never considered touching her before, but their shared experience had torn down a barrier between them. It all felt completely natural to him as he helped her put her cello in the back seat of the musty cab, then leaned in and whispered close to her ear, "Goodnight, Rose."

Her breath caught as their eyes met. She was surrounded in a cloud of cashmere, laundry soap and something sweet and creamy she couldn't quite place. "Goodnight, Edward," she answered. She hadn't minded his innocent touch or him calling her Rose. Especially the _way_ he said it, like a stolen moment that was gone before either of them knew it.

He pulled himself away from her and shut the door. The cab drove off, and he shoved his tingling, fisted fingers deep into the woolen pockets of his coat and headed home. Jack trotted along obediently beside him.

His mind raced. She was infuriating with her questions and insistence that he answer them. Vexing with the smirks and the bull-headedness she could barely conceal most of the time. Awe-inspiring as she became one with her cello, her soft curves molding perfectly to its solid frame. Absolutely breathtaking when her head was thrown back in abandon to the tempo that surrounded her, her eyes closed to better _feel_ the music. The way she looked as he watched her play, in that moment she looked to him like the fusion of human beauty and mankind's remarkable creativity molded into one lovely vision. He'd only had one other experience remotely close.

As a child, his mother had taken him to Seattle to see the symphony. They were doing a tribute to Chopin, and he was only seven years old, but already proficient at the piano and his mother enjoyed encouraging her son's ability. Unbeknownst to his mother, she had ignited a dream to live and breathe music every day. Since the moment he'd walked out of the Seattle Symphony that early spring night holding his mother's hand, his future became fixed. He sought out that feeling, that exhilaration, the breathlessness that comes when you hear something so beautiful you know it must have been touched by the hand of God.

He threw himself into his study of music. He labored over his piano so intensely his mother began to worry his fingers might blister, preventing him from doing his school work. He searched for the feeling like a would-be addict who'd just had his first hit. He learned every instrument he could. He begged his mother to get him a violin and he quickly became a virtuoso. Then a guitar, which he easily mastered, and even a flute, with which of course he had no trouble. She drew the line emphatically at a drum set.

Bella had encouraged him when they were young, finding his intense passion fascinating and maybe hoping he'd direct some of it toward her. As time wore on, he only grew more restless in his search, and she became bored, resenting the time and effort he wasn't spending on her. She couldn't identify with his obsession. She'd never had that experience, never felt that _alive_, and couldn't understand his need to find it again. They went to college and he kept searching, studying music on a scholarship to Mannes College of Music in New York. He composed his own pieces in a vain effort to capture that feeling of discovery, freedom, exhilaration and wonderment simultaneously again. Yet he still hadn't found it.

Until that night.

Rosalie Hale held the key to it all. She _was_ the key, her cello the metronome for his soul, shifting his perception of existence from the simple rhythm of his monotonous, daily routine to the complex, irrational meter of what _living_ life could feel like. He knew then he had been asleep, had drifted away from experiencing life as a willing and engaged participant. Would he feel it again, the next time they practiced together? He had to find out. Tomorrow. Immediately after rehearsal, if she was available. An electric zing flashed through him when he thought about what she had done. He didn't understand the logic behind it; it wasn't something he could explain scientifically. He wasn't even sure if anyone else had ever felt anything like it; he'd never told anyone aside from Bella about it. His joy in finding what he'd been searching for his whole life was thrilling, but what surprised him was the fact that he'd found it in another _person_. He'd been looking in the wrong place; he needed to look _beyond_ the music. And of all people, why Rosalie Hale? It was obvious to everyone that they detested each other.  
_  
Don't we? _

He looked up from the filthy grey sidewalk and noticed a little girl smiling sleepily at him as she passed, her head resting against her father's strong shoulder, clinging to him and the promise of sleep to come. Her dark hair reminded him of Leah from Rosalie's class, and he smiled at the memory of her sauciness. He'd been pleasantly surprised to find Rosalie teaching music to children. He'd have assumed she didn't have the patience for teaching. Obviously, he'd been wrong about her again. He'd judged her unfairly and felt guilty for it. With each new thing he discovered about Rosalie, the more intrigued he found himself. And now, after what had happened that evening, he had to get to know her better. There was no ignoring Rosalie, from this point on.

The next day when they went into the practice room together, Rosalie set up her cello and music stand right beside the piano, facing Edward. He frowned, wondering how he'd hide his rapturous expressions (which, he knew, must look ridiculous) from her.

"I'd just like to be able to see you better, so that I don't miss any instructions you might give me," she explained. He couldn't fault her logic, even though he thought he'd have little need to correct her technique. Yet, he said nothing to dissuade her for being closer to him. Over the next week, they practiced almost every day together in the same manner. On the days she wasn't teaching, they stayed well after rehearsals were over. Retreating to their little practice room, Rosalie did what only she seemed to be able to do: make Edward yearn and ache and _feel_. Her playing captured his musician's heart, and try as he might, he wasn't able to ignore the other affects she was beginning to have on him.

It wasn't discussed. Each was keenly aware that Edward's career position and Rosalie's seat in his orchestra did not allow to the _more _they both so desperately wanted. It simply was not appropriate. Even still, when they were near one another, they moved differently than they had before. No longer did he test her limits, but instead praised her loudly and guided her quietly, seeing the obvious strides forward she took when encouraged. Shy smiles were given on the sly upon entering the crowded practice hall, sideways glances that lingered longer than they should when Rosalie sat in the soloist's chair next to Edward's podium. Edward worried constantly someone noticed their looks that lingered or the small smiles that refused to be stifled. Of course he was worrying needlessly, as he so often did. The truth was, no one really had a chance to notice anything between them. Their interactions were almost always in the private and safe confines of their little practice room. It was Edward's guilt about his conflict between what was right and what he wanted made him feel exposed, as if everyone might see the truth in his heart.

When they were alone, they were slightly less inhibited. _Slightly._ Uncomfortable and forced conversations morphed into discussions of pieces which transitioned into discussions of common friends. There were brief touches: a hand placed on the small of her back to guide her into the room, a quick lean into his shoulder in response. Nothing that could ever be construed as something more, lest wandering eyes happened upon them. Rather than moving apart, they were slowly shifting closer together, day by day. Jack chaperoned; his watchful eye reminded them that they were never truly alone.

Dvořák's piece was practiced relentlessly and each time was more expressive, more devoted, more passionate. When he could see her getting frustrated, he'd slide into a different song. Sometimes she would join in, playing by ear if she didn't know the piece. Other times she would lean back in her chair, lifting her face to the light, closing her eyes and just listening as he poured his soul into the black and white keys. When she listened to him play, she was reminded of herself. Through his music, she was brought in her mind to practices alone in her apartment where she'd lose track of time and space around her, the feeling one in the same.

The music bound them; the passion drove them.

Although he didn't realize it, Edward hadn't thought of Bella in over a week. He'd been too consumed with Dvořák and the future to dwell on his past. He ordered _Mr. Holland's Opus_ on Netflix and watched it with Jack and his mom on the phone. He tried a chai latte and didn't hate it. In fact, it wasn't until the third sip that he wondered exactly what the hell he was doing, sitting in a ghastly corporate coffee bar with micro suede chairs and Pachelbel's _Canon_ playing over the speakers. He finally admitted to himself that he did indeed want to know more about her. Much, much more. Like if she'd ever gone to camp as a kid or which side of the bed she likes, because he liked the left. He always needed the left. He briefly contemplated the implications of what he would do if she also preferred the left.

Then he remembered why this line of thought was dangerous and why he _had_ to stop himself from dreaming about it, no matter how amazing the dreams might be. He was in a position of authority over her, and it would be despicable of him to suggest anything more than a professional, platonic relationship. He was her boss, and it was absolutely out of the question. Suddenly the chai tasted terrible, the Pachelbel seemed overplayed, and he remembered why one side of his bed would remain cold.

[~*~*~]

Scheduling constraints meant that it took a few weeks for Edward to return to Rosalie's music class. But he had made a promise to the children, and to Rosalie; one he intended to keep. He knew it was important to them and furthermore, he knew it was important to _her. _Rosalie shifted the class schedule, having their last class on a Tuesday rather than Thursday, since it was the week of Thanksgiving.

Arriving before the start of the class for his visit, he watched with interest as Rosalie greeted each child and caregiver with a smile that she was unable to keep at bay, several hugs, and even a few kisses. Edward realized that she was truly in her element, teaching children the love of music, and that they, in turn, loved her for it. Perhaps she was their _Tribute to Chopin_, the light bulb going off in their minds that would be a driving force for a lifetime love of making music. If Edward could assist in guiding these children toward that realization, even just one of them, he'd gladly show up for every class, if she allowed it.

The class made a big production of stretching and wiggling while Rosalie led them through their standard beginning song. Edward joined in the stretching routine, feeling a bit awkward and self-conscious as he felt the children's eyes upon him. He realized that they could _smell_ fear, so he began to move about, exaggerating his movements. The children giggled at his behavior as Rosalie watched him, a bemused look dancing across her face. She was used to seeing his stoic side, but somehow, over the past few weeks, there had been a shift. Edward realized that it would have never happened at his first visit, his past self would have been shocked by his current self's behavior. Spending time with Rosalie had taught him many things, including never going into anything with preconceived notions. While he wasn't all together comfortable with the children, he was trying his best. It did not go unnoticed by Rosalie.

After they sang their greeting song, Rosalie stood and beckoned Edward. "Since this is our last class, we are going to let all of you be in charge today. I can tell by the giggles that you've all noticed Mister Edward is back!" The giggles swelled again at her comment while Edward waved, ducking his head. "Just like he promised," she said, a bit quieter. He raised his head at her comment and caught her eyes, and very uncharacteristically, she blushed. "He's been playing piano for a very long time, he started when he was just a bit older than you are now."

"WOW! So he's been playing for SEVENTY ELEVEN years?"

"Seventy eleven? How old do they think I am?" He muttered to Rosalie as she placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the piano with the children trailing behind. The touch was a conscious maneuver on her part, to help him relax a bit. She could see his level of comfort rising and falling, like the tide.

"Don't take offense. The other day Emily asked if I was going to die because I wasn't married yet. These kids have no concept of time or age." Edward shrugged at this comment taking Rosalie's word for it, as he had no idea what children had an understanding of, at least as far as that was concerned. All he knew was he didn't want to see Rosalie die anytime soon.

He turned to look at the sea of expectant faces. "What do you want to hear?" This, he was certain he could handle. He wasn't sure exactly what the children would offer up in the way of suggestions but he had quite the repertoire, so he wasn't too concerned.

It was Sam who piped up. "I want to hear _Hey Diddle Diddle._"

"_Hey Diddle Diddle?_" Edward repeated back to him. His eyes slide to Rosalie's and she sat down beside him before reaching in front of him, unlocking and lifting the lid from the keyboard. _Really? Hey Diddle Diddle?_ His eyes crinkled with his silent question.

"The kids want what the kids want, Mister Edward," she answered, playing with Dickinson's quote.

Shrugging, he started to play a jazzy version of the song. The question "And what do _you_ want?" bounced around his mind, desperately wanting to fly from his lips. He knew that there was nothing that could come from her answer that would work to his advantage. If he was reading her vibes correctly, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Yet, he knew that neither of them was in the position to say or do anything that could jeopardize their carefully crafted working relationship.

The risk was too great for something that couldn't be. He held his words at bay where they were safe, in his mind, not allowing them to escape.

Vanilla and sunshine surrounded him as she stood, grabbing hands with the children and dancing. They swung their arms and pounded their feet on the ground as Edward pounded his fingers on the keys, putting his feelings of being bottled emotionally into the non-complex song. The only thing that was repetitive about _Hey Diddle Diddle _were the words, as Edward switched to different styles of music after each verse. His fingers itched to switch to something other than _Hey Diddle Diddle_, but he was happy to change the tempo and tone with every verse. He could feel the conflicting emotions rise up and then release with each interaction: soothing lullaby, jaunty ragtime, heartbroken dirge, soulful jazz. He was unable to vocalize how beautiful he thought she was in that moment, spinning on her toes, her hair fanning around her shoulders. He let the music speak the words he couldn't say, the emotions he couldn't express.

He found respite in the most unlikely of places: Leah.

Leah's small hand pulled gently at the sleeve he'd folded up nearly to his elbow. Bringing _Hey Diddle Diddle _to an end with an over-exaggerated glissando flourish, he turned to the children and asked if there was anything else they'd like to hear. Once she'd gotten his attention, Leah had run from him, wrapped her arms around the body of Rosalie's cello and was attempting to carry it across the room. His eyes flew to Rosalie, shocked at the gall of this child and slightly scared for her well-being, seeing how she was handling the precious instrument. He was even more shocked by Rosalie's reaction. She wrapped her arm around Leah, helping her carry the cello to a chair. Then Rosalie sat, placing both the little girl and the cello between her legs. Holding Leah's hand, she bowed the instrument, while placing her own fingers on the neck.

Leah turned her head so that she could look at Miss Rosalie's eyes, her little hand wove through Rosalie's hair. "You're so pretty, Miss Rosalie." Rosalie smiled at the child and Edward's heart wished he had the same opportunity. "Do you know the bird song? The one about the ugly duckling? It has a cello in it, Mommy told me so." Mystified, Rosalie looked to Leah's mom, Sue, for clarification.

"I believe it's called _The Swan_," Sue explained. "She has a video with classical music and it's on there."

Both Rosalie and Edward's faces showed that they did, indeed, know _The Swan_. Edward spoke. "Ah yes, Camille Saint-Saëns. This is from The Carnival of the Animals. _Le cygne._" Resting the cello on the floor, Rosalie stood, taking Leah in her arms with her to the closet. The scarves the class often used as props were pulled out and Leah handed them to both children and adults as Rosalie encouraging them to pretend as though they were the swans that Saint-Saëns wrote the music in honor of. Edward continued to talk to the children, "This song usually has two pianos and one cello but since we don't have two pianos here, I'll do my best to play both parts." The children all nodded as though they understood exactly what he was saying.

At one time, the song would have inspired visions of chocolate, dark features and alabaster skin for Edward; a homage to its namesake. It was a slow song and he was able to pour the emotion he still needed to express into the notes. As his hands rolled over the chords he gently played in tandem with Rosalie. Vanilla lingered on her skin and she inexplicably drew his eyes, his mind, his soul to her. Edward knew that from now on, when he heard or played _The Swan, _he would be reminded of this moment: afternoon sunshine filtering through double-paned windows, children's laughter and sheer scarves, and _her._ He'd think of how her passion made him a better man and how he wished he could share the sentiment with her.

* * *

**Krisbcullen **is our lovely beta.

**TheHeartofLife** and **Chele681** push us, ask for more, and encourage.

We love you, **Booberry.**

Special thanks to** Nattydread** for talking "shop" with me on the train, through the streets of NYC and on the phone.**  
**

**Team Cellolie** we love and appreciate you every moment we write this story, everyone moment we think of it. Basically, we love you always. We also love every single one of you reading, reviewing (as seen by our fawning in replies!), alerting, glancing in our general direction. ;)

**Reviews make us sing and dance.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**Camille Saint-Saëns was a simple adagio for the cello, technically speaking. It's a slow 6/4 time and the legato articulation gave it an airy grace as the bow slurred one note into the next. Entrusted to the talented hands of a cellist like Rosalie Hale, it became fraught with elegant sadness and laced with romantic hope. Its complexity lay in the subtlety of its emotional depth, and Rosalie drew from her well of life experience: her losses, her joys, her defeats, and her triumphs. Echoes of those life experiences rang through every note, and each note burned through Edward's soul. Even playing this simple piece, he was just as affected by her passion and connection to the music, affected by the _feeling _with which she played, as he would have been if she'd been playing Rachmaninoff with full orchestra, in front of a packed audience of music aficionados. It was her heart speaking through her cello, and Edward really wished that someday, they might be in a place where her heart could speak to him.

Edward played the piece's rolled chords quietly, allowing the romance pouring out of Rose's cello to be heard uninhibited. He looked at Rose; her eyes were closed as she concentrated and her forehead creased the tiniest bit. Her mouth slowly transformed into a small smile in certain parts, as she became one with the melody. Her vibrato was perfect, as if the tremulous intonation spoke for some hesitation of her own.

_Breathtaking_, he thought to himself.

The children complemented their music with their movements, fluidly spinning and floating the fabric scarves through the air. He watched the enraptured children allow the music to guide them, to inspire them. He could never remember feeling so free and uninhibited. The happiness they derived from the music inspired _him_. He didn't know what to do with the emotions coursing through him, but he knew he couldn't end the day without bringing things up a notch. The song concluded with Edward's hands dramatically reaching for the last single note and he quickly sat up from the bench. Rosalie's head snapped up at his sudden movement.

"I believe that I promised some professional-quality stick waving, didn't I?" he asked playfully.

[~*~*~]

The class ended and the children all surrounded Edward, asking if he'd be back again and how soon. He looked at Rose and promised that he'd come back any time Rosalie asked him to. This, of course, produced an excited tumult of glee accompanied by clapping and squealing. Their acceptance of him surprised Edward and made him feel unexpectedly welcome. He didn't realize how much fun he'd have with kids, and their exuberant, uninhibited happiness in the music was a joy to watch. The excitement from class slowly dwindled as the children shrugged into coats and pulled hats over their heads. Edward studied Rosalie intently, seeing parents approach and thank her for teaching the class. She smiled with a touch of embarrassment at their praise, as they expressed their own happiness at how much their children had enjoyed and learned from the experience.

Soon, the room was empty and suddenly very quiet, with just the two of them there. Edward stretched his fingers and cracked his knuckles nervously.

"Would you like to practice? Here, I mean?" she asked. "No one is using the room. We were last today," she finished in a hopeful rush. Edward smiled, more than happy to spend more time with her. Then his face fell; it was Tuesday and he had to play at Archie's. The next instant a brilliant smile Rose had never seen lit up his face.

_Stunning, _she thought as her heart thudded in her chest, a sudden increase of blood rushing through her body. Rosalie wasn't sure what had caused the sudden change of emotions but she was eager to find out.

"I'm playing at Archie's with Jasper's band this evening. Actually..." He looked down at his watch, as he began to unroll his sleeves. "I should probably head over there soon. Would you care to join me?" He glanced out of the corner of his eye at her and saw her fumble at bit with the bin of scarves she was putting away, which caused his smile to widen just slightly.

"Sure. But on one condition," she managed to say evenly. She moved to put her cello in its case, using it as an excuse to break eye contact with him. She'd learned pretty quickly that prolonged eye contact with Edward was dangerous.

"Still negotiating conditions?" He quirked an eyebrow as she spun around. Instead of meeting the warmth of his smile, she found his old, smirk firmly in place.

She went and plucked her coat off the hook near the door. "No playing _Bei Mir Bis Du Schön _during any point in the evening_." _

Edward laughed and was beside her in an instant, taking her coat and holding it open for her. He brought his mouth close to her ear, his breath caressing her neck. "If you insist," he acquiesced. She put her arms through the sleeves and wanted so badly to step back into him, wished that she would feel his arms envelop her. Prolonged eye contact wasn't her only concern; she was quickly learning that proximity to Edward presented its own..._challenges_. She reluctantly stepped away and finished tidying up the room as Edward put his coat on. The cello was placed in the closet, she would come back tomorrow to pick it up so it wouldn't be in the way over the winter hiatus.

They shared a cab to Archie's, and the back seat felt so much smaller to each of them than they had ever noticed in any cab before. They searched for something to say that would stay clear of any potentially dangerous topics or accidental innuendos. The unacknowledged feelings loomed between them. Rosalie didn't dare say a word, in fear that she'd overstep the carefully placed lines between them.

It would only take one spoken word, and their attraction to each other would be a problem to be dealt with instead of a happy dream he could dwell in. He didn't want to lose his dream, and he sort of needed his job. Yet, Edward had decided that he couldn't keep his distance from her. He might not be able to pursue a romance with her, but he would try to be her friend. He could settle for that. For as much alike as they were, they still had many things they could teach each other, and friendships like that don't come along often. Edward didn't squander any of the time he spent with Rose. He needed to know her better_. _

"You're so good with the children, Rose." His soft tone didn't hide his admiration.

She fidgeted and smoothed her coat. "Thank you, Edward. I love teaching. I suppose we both do," she said with a touch of hesitance that was very cute, but completely unlike her. Edward was puzzled.

Edward chuckled. "I did enjoy myself."

"No, I mean, your job. You've taught me so much since we started working together. I know how much you love sharing your knowledge with us. With the orchestra, I mean. I know how important your position with the symphony is to you." Her eyes were earnest and insistent.

Edward was silent, unsure of how to reply. Her last statement hung in the air, heavy with a meaning neither of them wanted to give power to by speaking it aloud. He examined the depths of her eyes, allowing himself to really search them and not be afraid of the power they might have over him. She was staring back at him with genuine understanding, first and foremost. Resignation was there too. He turned away and looked out the window not wiling to search any deeper for fear he'd want the things he might see.

Rose thought perhaps she wasn't being clear and she cautiously slid her gloved hand over the worn upholstery of the seat and into Edward's. Her fingers gave a gentle squeeze and he squeezed back. Hard.

"I have an ex-wife," he announced, thinking suddenly that for some reason she had a right to know. Also, Alice would be at Archie's and Bella's name might come up tonight.

Rose kept her countenance; she knew Edward had been married at one time. "May I ask how long ago you divorced?"

"Just over a year. She and I grew apart." He looked at Rose to gauge her reaction. She was smiling softly. Encouragingly. "We met and married young and we drifted, but we remain friends. Her name is Bella. She might come up in conversation tonight since she and Alice are friends, and I wanted to be the one to tell you," he explained, clearly nervous and concerned this piece of information would upset Rosalie. It might have bothered a less rational and logical woman. Rosalie studied him and detected no anger or resentment, no unrequited love or regret in his voice or manner. Bella was his past.

"Thank you for telling me," she whispered, impressed with the calm matter-of-fact manner in which he spoke of Bella. _How refreshingly grown up._ Her fingers tightened around Edward's hand before she pulled it back to her lap. Her gaze traveled out the window and she couldn't help but grin with a giddiness that betrayed her age. She knew he didn't _need_ to explain his romantic past to her, unless he felt he owed her an explanation. In which case, that meant it was possible he felt something for her, something more than respect for a colleague or a blossoming platonic friendship.

The cab pulled up to Archie's. It was early and subsequently, empty; the only guys from the band that were there were Seth and Jasper which meant Edward had some time before the set started. Jasper was warming up with Seth on sax, but shot them a dimpled smile as they took a booth near the stage. A waitress came to take their drink orders, (a Hefeweizen with an orange slice for Rose, a black and tan for Edward) and they sat across from each other in the high back booth in awkward silence. It felt too much like a date and even though they both wished it _was_ a date, it wasn't. They reached for the menus the waitress had left and hid behind them, Edward mumbling something about how he should eat before the band played.

The room wasn't hazy yet, the lights high and burning brightly. Seeing Archie's in the afternoon was a completely different experience than in the evening; the patrons always made their way in a few hours from now and currently, the silence that surrounded the two was nearly tangible. Neither of them knew what to talk about; the conversation moved in fits and starts, about mundane things like what they'd tried off the menu before and what they planned to get now. Rosalie's eyes looked to connect with his, attempting to get past the awkwardness but he stared at the menu's maroon and black ink, covered in plastic. A high soprano voice wafted toward them.

"Rosalie! It's so great to see you here. I heard that you're working with-" Alice cut herself off when she got close enough to the table to see Edward sitting across from her. "Well, I guess the rumors are true. Edward! You old so-and-so, where the hell have you been hiding? It's been nearly two weeks. I'm beginning to feel neglected."

Edward stood to greet Alice, grateful for the diversion. More people equaled less date-like situation and the less potential to have anyone stumble on the two of them alone. Being alone with her was dangerous, particularly given the clientele of this particular establishment.

Rosalie's eyes widened as she watched Edward wrap his arms around Alice's tiny frame and began to squeeze. "No! Not 'the crusher.' Wipe that damn smirk off your face!" He only squeezed tighter, ignoring Alice's shrieks. Jasper looked over for a moment, smiling at Edward and giving him a thumbs up, before looking back to Seth to work through the bridge they'd been practicing. It looked like he was about to release Alice and she began to ask, "Oh, you're finally going to-" but he decided he wasn't done with his fun yet so his arms tightened around her again.

Rosalie was mystified by his actions and was surprised by the slight tinge of jealousy that coursed through her body. She wasn't jealous of Alice but of the emotions that Edward expressed toward her. Some part of her wanted to live in a world where she could be that way with him. Every touch they shared was calculated, but this seemed to come from a place of comfortable friendship. Finally, Edward's arms retreated. Alice quickly slipped away, giving a quick hug to Rosalie before sliding into the side of the booth Edward had left empty when he rose to greet her. Shrugging, Edward slid in next to Rosalie, his side pressed against her for the briefest of moments while he slid her toward the wall. Looking first at the man next to her and then at the petite woman across the table, she sputtered, "What. Was. That?"

"That, my friend, was 'the crusher.' Something that Edward made up one night a few weeks ago after a late night jam session when I brought them snacks. Oh, I rue the day." She playfully rubbed her triceps while glaring across the table at the man with the sparkle in his eyes. Alice hadn't seen him ever look as energized as he did that night but she intuitively knew that it had to do with the woman he was sitting next to, desperately trying to steal glances of out of the corner of his eye. Jasper had told her about the Edward he knew in school and how he'd started seeing hints of his return. Alice was only used to seeing post-Bella Edward recently, and post-Bella Edward was not an overly happy man most of the time.

"Don't complain, Alice," Edward said, chuckling. "For the longest time, you whined that I didn't hug you while saying hello. Now that I do, all I hear is complaints. I would think you'd be thrilled." He turned to Rosalie and shrugged. "There's just no pleasing this annoying sprite." He teased Alice, "It's not my fault that you can't handle my supreme strength."

"Oh buddy, you just keep telling yourself that. You guys eating? I'm starved. Hold on, let me go pull Jasper away to join us. He'd be all skin and bones if I didn't remind him to eat, swear to God." She shook her head as she walked toward the stage.

The arrival of Jasper rounded out the table. The group dynamic made it easier for Rosalie and Edward to relax. The carefully kept guard was slowly lowered and they both sunk down, allowing their backs to rest against the booth. Once their food came, conversation was in full swing and had turned to Edward's visit to the music class earlier in the day.

Jasper's curiosity was apparent. "Can't really picture you with kids, Edward. Rosalie, was he a stick in the mud?"

"Well, I had my concerns but he was fantastic with them after things got rolling. Oh! Speaking of sticks though, Edward, tell them about your stick!" Rosalie took a healthy sip of her beer, hiding her smile behind her glass.

"Your _stick?_" Alice's eyes were just as curious as Jasper's. She'd been watching the couple across from her interact while they waited for their food and while they ate and could see that they were both fighting something that seemed to come very naturally to them. Alice knew that others in their position wouldn't be nearly as disciplined, but others were not Edward Cullen and Rosalie Hale. She teased them both. "I thought this was a music appreciate class _for _children, not one that led to _making_ children!"

"I'd promised the children that I would show them my baton the first time I stopped by." Both sets of eyebrows raised across the table and Alice discretely pinched Jasper's leg under the table at the mention he'd been to the class more than once. "So, I chose _Ring Around the Rosie_ as my example piece. Very fitting, I thought." He gestured to Rosalie in correlation to the song.

"Thank you so much for that. Isn't it said to be about bubonic plaque?"

"Actually, I think that was found to be baseless." The easy smirk wasn't condescending but rather teasing, a slight hitch higher made the difference. "_Anyway_, I had the kids pretend that they were the instruments. They had to watch my baton so they knew when to spin and when to fall down and of course, Rosalie had to watch since I was 'conducting' her, as well." Jasper got yet another pinch from Alice as they observed the easy back and forth of their storytelling. It reminded them of themselves.

Rosalie smiled as he continued to talk. She was shocked by the simple yet effective method he used to show the children how the baton worked. Rosalie had played the song on her cello while the children clasped hands and danced around her, following the direction of Edward's baton that had cued them to move in a circular motion. Once they sang "...Ashes, ashes. We all fall..." Edward had made an exaggerated movement with his arm, raising the baton over his head. The children had watched his every moment, fixated, and Rosalie was once again startled by the commanding nature he had. No longer did the children cause him to be shy and awkward, instead she saw the man she was used to seeing in front of an orchestra comprised of a hundred adults.

His voice brought her back to the conversation, Archie's was getting louder as the evening began to creep up and take over the afternoon. "And then I moved the baton down on the word 'down' and they all dropped to the ground. It was pretty amazing. Never thought I'd say it, but I was totally comfortable."

Rosalie chimed in, "Yes, that's because you were in your element. Bossing people around."

"Well," he said as he puffed out his chest, "I am a natural leader."

Jasper snorted. "It's time I lead you to the piano. And I think you should have to call me maestro, since you're in my outfit now," he puffed.

"Yeah, okay _Satchmo_," Edward teased with a roll of his eyes as he scooted out of the booth. "I take requests, in case you'd like to make one of me," he said to Rose and the moment the words left his lips, he wasn't sure which way he intended her to take them. He meant it so many ways. Alice sat staring at him in stunned silence.

"_We._ _We_ take requests. Come on, Aretha, let's see if you can get yourself a little respect," Jasper teased as they headed toward the stage.

Rosalie watched Edward walk away and was a little envious. The excitement of performing and pleasing the crowd burned in her veins as much as his. He took his seat at the piano, and it dawned on her how different he was than when they'd first met. He was so tense then, always hunched forward and turned in on himself. Trying to shut out the world and seemingly determined to live like a recluse. Now he moved with relaxed grace and had an easy and open manner that bespoke of a different Edward emerging.

"So what's the problem?" Alice asked as she dipped her finger into the Burt's Bees lip balm, smearing it generously over her lips before smacking them together.

"Problem?"

"You...Edward..." Alice elaborated with a wave between Rose and the empty space Edward has just occupied. Rose's heart skipped; she was at a loss, and frankly, unable to decipher the expression Alice wore. It was somewhere between curious and concerned.

_Did Edward say something to her? How can I answer without implicating him? _Rose quickly swiped her glass and drained the last of the warm beer at the bottom, trying to think of a way out of this conversation. A quick, awkward glance at Alice told her she wasn't going to get out of it though, no matter what she said.

"It's obvious Rose. Nothing you can say will convince me nothing is going on, so don't bother trying."

Rose decided defense was her best option. "Alice, nothing _is_ going on. Besides, I'd thank you to not let your imagination run rampant. Edward and I are simply _colleagues_. Nothing more." Alice heard the note of sad resignation in Rose's voice, even though Rose had tried her best to smother the sentiment as she spoke.

"You're a shitty liar, Rose." She shrugged and moved on. "Maybe something isn't going on _yet_, but something _will_ happen eventually."

Rose sighed. "_Nothing_ will _ever_ happen, Alice. He's my superior, my boss. It's a violation of Symphony policy. I looked it up," she tacked on and instantly regretted it. Now Alice knew exactly how much thought she'd been putting into Edward Cullen._ Crap_. Alice's scheming smile fell a little at Rose's words. She knew Edward would never put himself or Rose in that situation. There had to be another solution.

"Do you _want _something to happen, Rose?" She didn't really need to ask, the way Rosalie looked at Edward would make it obvious to anyone that she felt _something_ for him. Still, she felt Rose needed to admit it _out loud._

Rose didn't want to reply. She felt backed into a corner and the lamp hanging over the booth suddenly felt like a spotlight. Yet, she needed to talk to someone about the situation, about the helplessness she was feeling.

"It doesn't matter," she finally answered in a mumble. "He just got divorced and I'm not sure it would be right, even with all the other obstacles out of our way."

Alice didn't fail to notice the "our way" that Rosalie had tacked on at the end of her statement._ Interesting choice of words, Rosalie._ "Look, it's over between him and Bella. They'll always be friends, you can't grow up with someone the way they did together and not care about them at all. But that's all it is at this point: friendship. It just took Edward a while to adjust to her not being _around_ all the time, know what I mean?"

Rosalie nodded, even though she had no idea what Alice meant. Rose had never been married or anything close to it, never shared a deep commitment to someone like that.

"I've known Edward for a while now, and I've never seen him so content and relaxed. Just don't give up yet. Things have a way of working themselves out," Alice urged.

Rose turned over Alice's advice. Maybe it could work out, somehow. She couldn't see the solution, but she had absolutely no intention of going anywhere. The idea of not seeing Edward regularly made her heart clench. Their waitress came back and they ordered another round of drinks, including refills for the guys. Rose sipped her beer and daydreamed about solutions, searching for one that would let her have her stick and wave it, too. Alice sipped her cosmo and watched Rose's shifting dreamy expressions like a scheming lady in waiting. They made small talk, Alice mentioning that they planned to head to Jasper's parents' house for Thanksgiving. Rosalie started to tell her that she didn't have any plans for the upcoming holiday but Jasper's voice over the microphone interrupted her.

"Hope you're all have a good time tonight. Remember, we're taking requests, throw them in the hat and we'll see what you get with the next set. See you in about twenty." The jukebox blared on, a jarring difference from the smooth sound of the live performers. The band members shuffled off the stage, scattering through the bar to meet up with friends and acquaintances. Edward and Jasper made their way back to the booth for a few minutes, Alice and Rosalie both slid further into the booth to once more make room.

"So ladies, what did we miss?"

Alice wasted no time. After all, she certainly couldn't let the opportunity pass by. "Actually, we were just chatting about Thanksgiving plans. I told her we'll be at your parent's house. Are you spending Thanksgiving with your folks this year, Rosalie?"

Rose shook her head, quietly explaining the situation by summarizing the conversation she'd had with her parents over the weekend while she and Edward took a quick break from rehearsing. She sat on the tiled floor of the hallway, her back pressed against white painted cinder blocks. Her mom and dad both spoke, each on an extension. They were home but soon heading out for a tour in Europe, and Rosalie knew that it would be difficult for them to be together on Thanksgiving. When she was younger, they made sure they were together for the actual day to celebrate together but once she reached her twenties, they'd changed their tradition. They celebrated every moment they were together, treating each moment as a holiday within itself.

She explained it away quickly, as though it wasn't a big deal that she would be alone for the holiday. Alice was not pleased with the answer and started searching her purse for her cell phone.

"Alice, what are you doing?" Rosalie asked, attempting to keep the panic from her voice. She could see the wheels turning in Alice's head and she had a feeling she was trying to figure out what to do with her, like she was a child that needed taking care of.

"Calling Jasper's parents. I'm sure they can make room for one more, you can ride there with us. You shouldn't be alone on Thanksgiving!"

Edward spoke up (just as Alice had hoped), in an attempt to save Rosalie from her plans. "I'll be alone, too. Mom's in Seattle and I'm not making the trip this year. Nothing wrong with alone time. As musicians, we're used to it. Often times, I think we thrive on it. Maybe that's why we're so socially awkward at times. Always in our own heads, always thinking about our music."

Rosalie's lowered head snapped up, grateful that Edward would throw himself under the bus in order to give her a reprieve. "Perhaps you could come over for dinner then? We could... practice?" She threw in the last sentiment to give a purpose to their meeting at her home. There was nothing wrong with hosting him for dinner, she rationalized, especially Thanksgiving. But she'd be careful not to mention it to anyone else, knowing that it was how rumors got started.

It took every effort on Edward's part to hide his elation as he smiled at her warmly. "I'm already looking forward to it, Rose."

Alice couldn't hide her mischievous grin.

* * *

**Surprise - we're early!  
**

**KrisBCullen **is our fantabulous beta.

**Chele681 **and** TheHeartofLife **are our gorgeous prereaders! We smoosh **Booberry.**

We write this with love and snugs for **Team Cellolie!**

OMG – the **Fictionators** highlighted our little story. To say that we were flattered would be an understatement! LSD called Lore from the bus stop to properly squee. Mucho love and thanks!

Since you're here, we're assuming that you like Roseward (safe assumption, yes?). Right this very moment, **The Filthy Roseward Anonymous One Shot Contest **is going on. We are big proponents of more Roseward stories out in this world. Have an idea? Give it a go! http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/u/2529769/FilthyRoseward_and_Co

The Age of Edward Contest just launched! Pioneerward, Pirateward or Greaserward? Write it for the biggest Edward appreciation contest there is. http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/u/2493079/Age_of_Edward_2010

**Reviews always thrill us - we love responding and geeking out (and trust when we say we do every time!). Plus, we'll send a little teaser for chapter 7 along, if you're interested!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**Mr. Holland sat, perched on the bedroom window, maintaining her vigil. Families rushed about the city streets, large groups of people entering homes, greeted with large hugs and quick kisses on the cheek, all under her watchful gaze. Her eyes keenly studied the street scouting every single man, waiting for _him_, knowing that her owner was busy at work in the kitchen. While Mr. Holland was still a cat and not prone to such exuberances, she was happy that someone had finally sparked something in Rosalie. She could tell that Rosalie was different since meeting him. The far-off, wistful expression that she saw so many times when Rosalie played the cello had seeped into other times, too, and she often found her owner staring off, thinking dreamily.

Normally, the cat would be napping at this time, but she was too interested in their impending visitor to sleep. She could hear Rosalie bustling in the kitchen, working fastidiously to give the appearance she had just thrown things together, rather than the meticulously planned meal it was. The short bell of the door broke Mr. Holland from her thoughts and she stood, arching her back and yawning once before gracefully hopping down from her perch.

A bit breathlessly, Rosalie opened the door to her apartment. It would be easy to say that her cheeks were flushed from being in the warm kitchen, just as it would have been easy to say that his were reddened from being in the cold air. They stood, staring at each other for more than a moment, before Edward shook his head, as though breaking out of a daze. He shoved the pie he was holding toward her, and she clumsily reached for it, while he clarified: "It's apple." She nodded. "I made it." Her eyes widened. "My mom, she and I used to... make stuff. Bake. Together."

"That's really..." she trailed off, trying to think of the right word. _Cute, surprising, lovely, adorable... _"Sweet. And thoughtful. Thank you for making the effort."

Rosalie was so focused on Edward that she jumped a bit at feeling Mr. Holland's body against her leg. She gave fair warning as Edward removed his coat that Mr. Holland wasn't the friendliest of cats and that he might want to steer clear, or be prepared for the cat to do so on her own. Mr. Holland peeked around her leg, curious to see Edward, the man that she'd been hearing about for the past three weeks. Green met green and Mr. Holland deftly leapt onto the low sofa table, ignoring the low chiding tones Rosalie aimed at her; a skill that any good cat could show off with pride. Surprisingly, she stared expectantly at Edward, waiting for something. Ignoring the warning, he cautiously offered his hand, while Rosalie held her breath and prayed that the cat didn't maim him. After all, he needed that hand to conduct and she imagined bandages would be a significant hindrance.

Mr. Holland daintily sniffed his hand, her eyes narrowing when she realized that he was the owner of the offending dog that had been spending much time with her owner. She appeared to infinitesimally raise her nose in disgust before nuzzling her face against the back of his long fingers. With that, she tilted her head back and rubbed her body against not only his hand but his sleeve, her emerald eyes slits of rapture as she purred.

Rosalie watched the entire exchange in utter astonishment, slightly mouthing a surprised _Oh_! "It looks like you've got a fan. She's very picky with her affections. She won't associate with just anyone."

"Hmmm, wonder where she gets that from." He teased her because, after their night at Archie's, he knew that he could. Still, he watched her curiously as he continued to bond with her cat. Knowing it surprised her intrigued him.

A quick flip of the hair over her shoulder and a smile was all the answer he got in return as she placed the pie in the refrigerator, then carried his coat off, apologizing for the lack of closet space. He stood, waiting in the foyer, at first unsure of whether he should follow her or wait for her to return, before finally settling on walking into the living room. While she placed his coat on her bed, she called out to him, telling him to make himself at home. A fleeting thought rushed through her, noting that if he were truly _at home_, she would have tossed his coat on the sofa and brought him to her bedroom. She shook her head to dislodge the thought and quickly glanced in the wrought-iron mirror over her dresser. She looked fine, if not a bit flushed. _Get yourself under control, Rosalie_, she thought as she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Wringing her hands in front of her, she bustled back into the room, finding Mr. Holland looking at him adoringly as they both sat on the couch. She gave the cat a quick glare, wondering what her deal was, and offered Edward a beverage. "I have a pinot grigio chilling, merlot, beer, soda-diet or regular, juice-apple, orange, cranberry, water..." She looked at him with a raised eyebrow as she'd listed most of what she had to offer… in the way of beverages.

"What are you having?"

She thought for a moment. She was partial to the merlot but she knew it could stain her lips and teeth and worried about looking silly. "I'm going to have the pinot grigio," she said, decidedly.

Edward nodded at her choice. "I'll have the same, please." He stood and followed her to the kitchen, the aroma of the food wafting through the apartment. "It looks and smells like you went all out. I hope this wasn't an inconvenience for you."

"No, no trouble at all. I... enjoy doing things like this. It just doesn't make sense for me to do it all the time when it's usually just me. And Jasper and Alice, well, they are lovely but they are so-" She cut herself off, looking almost embarrassed.

"Together?" Edward supplied the word.

"Yes! I almost feel like I'm intruding on their own personal bubble when I'm with them alone. That's why..."

"What?" His elbows rested on the counter and he leaned in, conspiratorially. "I promise you, whatever you're thinking, I've probably felt the same."

"That's why I'm glad that I had you there at Archie's the other night. I didn't feel like such an intruder."

_It felt right._

She moved around the kitchen and he sat on the high bar top stool she had placed at the counter. Initially, their conversation and moves were part of the carefully choreographed dance they'd been following up until this point, each afraid of saying too much or not enough. Edward kept both of their wine glasses filled, and they snacked on a vegetable tray that Rosalie had bought the previous evening. He told her about his mom and where he'd grown up, told her about the first time he'd seen an orchestra and what it inspired, even told her a bit about Bella.

A reach for a platter revealed a sliver of her back to Edward's eyes. Drawn to the small span of skin, he was surprised and scintillated to see black ink, equal points on either side of the small of her back. The wine made him bold; he desired to know more, anything she'd share. Once she stood by his side, the platter deposited on the counter, his hand finally did what it had longed for since the last time they'd touched. His pointer visited the small of her back, just between where he'd seen the marks.

Frozen in her spot, one hand resting on the counter and the other holding the stem of her glass, she tilted her head so that she could look at him. He wanted to know it, to see it, to trace it with his finger or with his tongue. "You have tattoos." It was a statement, an observation, and the only thing he could say. His toe had already gone over the line with the entire encounter. The dinner, the thoughts he could not rid himself of, not that he wanted to, those were already questionable. His touch and his desire to know more were merely a crescendo to a piece that should never have been played.

"I do," she replied, unable to formulate words beyond that. His finger remained there, searing her skin, his eyes betraying the desire and intrigue he had hoped to hide. He had failed completely, and every glance spoke the words he knew he couldn't speak. She knew that they echoed her own. She, too, knew they could not be acted on. It didn't stop her from wishing.

The alcohol pushed her boldness as well and she kept his eyes locked with hers as she turned her back slowly to him, an offering of delicate skin still peeking from her shirt. He didn't dare look away. "Would you like to see?"

"I would." Short sentences, spoken quickly and quietly, as though if it was said in this manner, it would be kept secret.

The fabric of her burgundy blouse was hitched slowly, exposing the lower portion of her back to him. He caught the gasp before it escaped his lips. F-holes, mirroring the tattoos of a photograph he'd seen of Kiki de Montparnasse, stretched over a good portion of her skin, sitting prettily on either side of her spine. Edward held his hand at bay, not allowing his fingers to do what they wished, to return to her delicate smoothness.

"Is there a story?"

She lowered her shirt once more, covering her skin, because she knew it was the appropriate thing to do. "Have you ever questioned your choice to be a musician?" A shake of the head told his answer. "Well, I stopped playing for awhile, thinking that I'd been forced into it. I was in college and well, I was working a lot harder than other people in other majors. So I just stopped, stopped playing, brought my cello home. I wasn't sure it was what _I_ really wanted and thankfully, my parents were supportive of my indecision. I'd even changed my major to elementary education. After a year, I realized that while my parent's careers had steered me, my heart truly belonged to music. The day I returned to the program, I got my tattoos and I never looked back. But, if I do, I'll see these to remind me." They shared soft smiles before Rosalie clasped her hands together and declared that dinner was ready to be served.

The small dining room table held more than its fair share of food and they both sat with full glasses of wine and soon, full stomachs. The conversation was rhythmic and melodic, their laughter rising and falling easily. They dined as friends, with an underlying hint of something more.

While they both cleared the table, Edward's cell phone rang. Apologetically he looked at the screen, seeing the word _Mom_. He'd tried to catch her earlier in the day but was unable. He did not want to be rude while he was in Rosalie's home. He breathed out that it was his mom calling and that was all that it took for her to shoo him away with a wave of her hand.

"Edward, honey. It's Mom." Esme always felt the need to announce who she was, even with caller ID. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

Edward sat in the chair near the window, the cello resting next to it. "Same to you, Mom. Are you having a good one? Please pass my regards to everyone there."

Her muffled voice relayed his message to everyone and he could hear family members calling out their greetings. Esme laughed at the chaos of their voices and he closed his eyes, relishing the rich, warm tones of his mother's voice, the ones that could comfort from thousands of miles away.

"What are you doing today, Edward? Please tell me you aren't alone." Since his divorce, there had been other holidays where this had been the case. Christmas last year was spent with Chinese food and movies, surrounded by composition books. It never bothered him as much as it had his mother, but even so, he was happy to report the turn of events. He could hear Rosalie in the kitchen, talking to Mr. Holland, and the squeak of her oven door.

"No, I'm not alone. One of the members of the orchestra didn't have plans and kindly invited me for dinner."

"One of the members? A woman?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad to hear you aren't alone," Esme stated carefully. She was thrilled her son was with someone else on Thanksgiving, but she knew the potential issues that could arise from his son's position as this woman's superior. She had to trust that he would never jeopardize his career.

"Thank you, Mom. I'll call you once I get home. Will you be around in a few hours?" He said this to make it clear that he didn't have any intentions on spending the night. Plus, if he promised his mom a phone call, the temptation of staying would be less. Slightly.

"I will. I'll speak to you more then, honey. I love you. Be safe."

"I love you, too."

Edward absorbed the silence for a beat before Rosalie called out to him that she'd be there in a minute, she was just warming the pie and putting leftovers in containers for him to take for himself and Jack. Sitting in the straight-backed chair, he pulled her cello between his legs, wishing it was her there instead. Running his hands over the body of the beautiful instrument and longing for it to be her. His head bowed as he looked at the neck, trying to remember proper placement of fingers. The bow felt unnatural in his fingers as he tried to recapture the proper positioning in his fingertips. The information lay dormant in his mind from years of disuse, but it seemed suddenly important – even vital – that he pay homage to this particular instrument.

His tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed, he concentrated as he attempted to play the prelude to Bach's _Cello Suite No. 1_. Rosalie heard the music and walked out to see him with her favorite cello. While she should have felt annoyed at his blatant disregard for her personal property, the loving way that he cradled the instrument to his body and the clear reverence with which he treated it, only served to draw her closer to him.

"Tempo, Maestro," she teased him quietly, ribbing him the way that he would her. Gently, she came to stand behind him in the chair. "May I?"

He misunderstood her question and started to rise, but she placed a hand on his shoulder, putting pressure enough that he knew to stay in the chair. Leaning forward, she placed her left hand in tandem with his, on the fingerboard, her right just past the crook of his elbow, as far as she could reach without sitting behind him. The position mimicked what she'd done with Leah at their music class, but this possessed none of the innocence that had been present that day. Both of them were profoundly aware of the slight press of her breast against his shoulder, the feel of her breath lightly caressing his cheek. He held his head steady, afraid of what might happen if he were to turn even slightly in her direction. This was more than dinner with a friend, no matter what either of them told themselves.

"It's been awhile," he muttered. Her hair fell over his shoulder as she nodded. She tapped the instrument twice with her ring finger. "Why do you _do_ that?" he asked in hushed, reverent tones. He had to keep quiet about so many other things, but he could afford his curiosity on this.

"I'm putting my heart into it. _Vena amoris._ I know it's been proven false but it's how I connect." She brought her finger to her lips to demonstrate, kissing it softly and tapping again. His eyes followed her finger hungrily, and he quickly turned away from her, feeling the light sheen of sweat on his flush face cool when she exhaled. Neither of them spoke again. Attention was focused on their playing while she struggled not to think of the increased pressure of her chest against him as she inhaled and how close their cheeks were with every movement of the bow.

His bowing was on point, her fingers moved up and down the fingerboard, and together they created the notes. They finished their duet on the solitary instrument. Hearts racing, they knew that words could only hurt this moment they'd created together. Instead, she moved the hand that had been guiding his bowing arm to his shoulder and rested her cheek against the back of his neck. His fingers finally wound through the strands of wheat-colored hair that he'd wanted to touch. It was everything that could not happen, and yet it was. Neither wanted to be the one to break the spell, neither wanted to be the one to point out the very real fact that this was forbidden, that it shouldn't happen. So they put their lives on pause for a moment and used it for what it was, a comfort, a sense of acceptance, kindred spirits.

Before it could become any more or less than what it was in that very moment, the buzzer went off in the kitchen, signifying that the pie was warmed. Hair was unwrapped, as were arms, and quiet smiles were exchanged as they straightened themselves before heading into the kitchen. The apple pie was carefully removed from the oven and the coffee gurgled as the last of the water ran through it.

The offer of coffee was accepted, as he knew he needed to break the daze created by both the wine and her. Steaming mugs were placed side by side before Rosalie turned her attention to the pie, placing it on a trivet before taking two small plates from the cabinet. He watched her move around the small kitchen while inhaling the coffee's aroma. She would offer cream, sugar. That would be appropriate and correct if not what he preferred, and it would remind him of his place, his lot, his fate of not always getting what he wanted.

"I wish I had thought to get whipped cream or ice cream for the pie," Rosalie said as she searched the fridge. "I'm pretty sure I don't have any but... I might..." Opening the refrigerator door, the cold air hit her. She thought it might break the spell she fell into when they were together but it did not. Instead, she found something that might assist in her current predicament. It wasn't the cure all but she pulled out the familiar tub of Cool Whip. "Is this okay?" she asked, uncertainly.

The smile that lit his face was reminiscent of the one she'd seen from him prior to going to Archie's a few short days ago. "It's more than okay." The smile didn't leave his face as he took the container from her and opened it. Instead of spooning a dollop of the topping onto his pie, however, Rosalie watched as he dropped a heap into his coffee mug.

"That's... disgusting." Pushing her mug toward him, she nodded her chin from the container to her cup, her actions contradicting her words. "Let me try."

She prepared herself, screwing her face into a puckered grimace, not knowing what to think but assuming it wouldn't be anything good. She took a sip and paused.

"Well?" His heart thundered ridiculously, knowing it was only a silly coffee thing but, in his heart, wondering if it could be so much more.

Her mind flashed to the day that they were together at Starbucks. "Wait, is this why you were glaring? That day that we met..." She thought about him looking at his coffee in disdain. "This... this is _why._"

"I like what I like."

She rolled her eyes teasingly. _Of course you do._ "What in the world ever gave you the idea in the first place?" The blue in her eyes was alight with curiosity.

"Once in college, when I was badly in need of coffee and out of creamer and milk, I became desperate," he explained, smiling.

Rosalie nodded. She remembered making many interesting culinary discoveries in college. She took another sip and decided it wasn't disgusting. The creamy sweet smell seemed familiar and it suddenly clicked. It was one of the scents she associated with Edward. She brought the cup closer and inhaled the fragrant steam deeply. The silence deepened as they ate their pie and shot cautious glances at each other over the table. Their thoughts lingered on what had happened before the oven buzzer had interrupted them. As Edward brought the last forkful of pie to his mouth, he decided the gentlemanly thing to do would be to make a respectful exit.

"I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed myself. You're an excellent cook, and a gracious hostess."

Rose hid her frown with her napkin and glanced at the clock. It was later than she thought. "And you are an excellent baker. Are you sure you wouldn't like another slice?" she stalled.

No, he told her gently, his eyes burning. He couldn't possibly eat another piece, he really needed to leave. Jack was waiting for him. She handed him a bag of leftovers and went to retrieve his coat. She helped him put it on, her hands lightly smoothing the cashmere over his shoulders. He turned to face her and they were mere inches apart. Their breath mingled as they each battled with what was right versus what they _wanted_. It would be so easy for him to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her to him. Her fingers almost reached up to trace his cheekbone of their own accord._ Almost. _

He took up her hand as if he were going to kiss it, but instead enclosed it between both of his. His earnest eyes, full of longing for that which was forbidden, penetrated her soul. He wanted to tell her how he felt, wanted to question her and hear that she returned his affections. He wanted to dance his fingers over her tattoo and play her body like an instrument. He wanted to make her his.

Instead, he said his goodbye. "Good night, Rose. Thank you for a wonderful evening." His eyes smoldered.

Rosalie's thoughts were jumbled and erratic. "Thank you for coming. I'll see you Monday, at rehearsal." Both their expressions darkened; Monday was a very long way off. His head bowed slightly before he turned on his heel and left. Rosalie closed the door, leaning back against it until the latch clicked and then sagging flush to it, her head making a slight thud. With her eyes shut, she tried to gain control of her trilling heart. She felt Mr. Holland brush against her leg as she offered up an inquisitive meow, then sniffed the door. Rosalie sighed, then stooped to scoop the cat into her arms.

"Yes, he's gone. Let's go be morose together, you little flirt."

Jack gave Edward the olfactory third degree when he returned to his apartment. Edward got the feeling Jack wasn't upset that he'd been with a cat so much as that he'd been with Rose and hadn't taken Jack along. After Edward took him out for a quick walk, he made his apologies to Jack by giving him a big hunk of turkey from the leftovers Rose had sent home with him. As Edward put the containers in the fridge, a memory flooded his mind. Her cheek resting softly against his neck, his fingers threading through her luxuriant hair. The moment had been painted in the sad hue of resignation and wasted fate. Edward _knew_ that Rose felt something between them just as he did. Something she had a difficult time refusing, just as he did. Edward also knew that action would have to be taken before one of them did something they regretted.

Despite the late hour, he pulled the bench out from his piano and sat down. His feelings were bunched up in an unorganized ball of confusion and he knew the best way to sort them out was to _play _them out. Jack curled up under the bench, seeming to sense Edward's need for moral support. He brought his fingers to the keys and, raising his ring finger, tapped his lips twice in dedication to her before unleashing the sadness and conflict in his heart.

* * *

**KrisBCullen** is our sweet beta.

**TheHeartofLife, Chele681, and Miztrezboo** are our sweet pre-readers.

**Team Cellolie** fluttered their lashes on Twitter at us. It worked. We like keeping them happy!

To every single one who is reading and on this journey with our characters – we love you! Thank you so much for the love and support. We know Roseward isn't traditional but we like going against the grain. ;)

**Reviews are love.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**Thanksgiving with Rose haunted Edward. She was a nightly apparition that stalked his dreams with the scent of apple pie and the sound of their cello duet played sadly on her solitary instrument. He was surprised to realize that it had been the most erotic experience of his life, despite the fact that nothing sexual at all had taken place. The brief touches, although laced with lust and longing, were really rather innocuous. Still, the depth and intensity he felt took him by surprise. His feelings evolved and grew without conscious thought or control on his part, and he found himself physically _craving_ her presence. He began to understand how very different were the feelings he had for Rose in comparison to what he'd felt for Bella. He'd thought himself in love with Bella for most of his life. Now, he understood that he'd loved Bella in the way that teenagers let lustful infatuation become their _idea_ of what love is, but Rosalie inspired feelings whose strength he'd never imagined could exist. There simply was no comparison.

For Edward, the holidays passed in a morose blur. After Thanksgiving he and Rosalie no longer had private practices. The holiday concerts were fast approaching, and Edward had to direct his attention to the needs of the entire orchestra. Instead of practicing for a few hours they played all day, and Edward tried not to take out his frustration over his love life by being overly critical of the performance of his orchestra. He was sullen and irritable and most of all, annoyed that all he could do was covertly watch Rose from a distance. His head would automatically snap in her direction at the sound of her laughter and his chest would ache when he watched her leave for the day alone. It always broke his heart, watching her brave the windy, barren sidewalks home to her lonely apartment before opening the doors himself, to do the same. Edward suffered in a perpetual state of helpless longing, and it wasn't long before he truly began to understand what he felt for her. Being near her in the private world of their practice room those few hours a day had been just enough to make the forced distance between them bearable.

He missed her so much he bought a cello and played it nightly in a vain attempt to feel closer to her. It seemed to work on a superficial level; the pine forest smell of rosin and the cello's deep seductive tones helped re-create the memory of her in his mind, but they didn't capture _her._ His playing wasn't able to conjure up her warmth and curiosity, and her passion was unmistakably absent. No matter how reverently he cradled the varnished cherry wood between his thighs and how gently his fingers stroked the strings, he couldn't feel close _enough_. He wondered if she were right there exactly what _would_ satisfy him. Every night that Edward spent playing it became clear, this wasn't ever going to be any kind of substitute for her, and his resolve that something must be done became more firm. He only saw one viable option, and as he lay in bed each night he marveled at the duality of emotions he felt. For how could one person's heart break and rejoice in love at the same time?

Rosalie remained the metronome for his soul; with each tick and tock, each swing of the pendulum rod back and forth, he fell more deeply in love with her. It didn't seem fair to him that two people who had so much potential happiness within their reach should let it pass them by, unexplored. Edward's willingness to adhere to rigid rules began to waver. His beloved routine virtually vanished. Edward felt confined enough by the rules that kept him sequestered from Rose he had little interest in following his self imposed restrictions. He and Jack went on their morning walks, but aside from that and his coffee, he didn't have the concentration for much else. He went to work early and stayed late. He slept little, instead focusing on the cello and when the hour grew too late for him to play, he turned his restless attention to composition. Sitting at his dining table, a composition book on his left and pencil nearby, he'd quietly pluck out the notes the notes that mirrored the conflict and desire in his heart. His new piece masterfully blended a sad amoroso followed by a frenzied agitato and the ending always hung uncertainly in the air, much like his future. He felt as though if he could complete the bridge, if he resolve that last note, it would lead him to the solution he sought with Rose.

Days passed and Edward still only saw one solution. He agonized over it, doubted it, and wracked his brain for another choice, _any_ other choice. He wavered between what he thought he wanted all of his life and what he now knew he couldn't live without. If he was honest with himself, he knew it was a sacrifice he would _only _be willing to make for Rosalie. He decided there were lots of ways a man could make music in the world, but there was only one Rosalie Hale. One bitterly cold January morning with Jack trotting obediently beside him, he went to work ready to take action.

A brief visit to Mrs. Cope's office was all that was required to set in motion the wheels that would bring them together. Not wanting to stay and discuss the matter further, he nodded to her wordlessly as she asked her questions and then departed down the hall, as quickly and silently as he'd approached.

Edward retreated to the only place he knew would soothe the dull ache in his chest; their little practice room. Its padded burgundy walls whispered her presence and the resonating echo of her cello seemed _just_ out of earshot. He sat down before the piano he'd come to think of as theirs and lifted the lid, remembering the first time he and Rose had played together in the soundproof little room and she had completely altered his existence. For so long they had danced _around_ each other and carefully walked the tightrope of workplace propriety. Not for much longer. Soon, if she'd have him, he'd be free to court her like any other man in love would pursue the object of his affection.

That was when Edward faltered. What if she wouldn't have him? What if his rash passion had led him to the wrong decision? Perhaps he should've discussed his plan with her, given her the opportunity to voice her concerns. Of course he should have done that, Rose deserved to have a say in this, it wasn't fair for him to assume she'd want him this way. He grumbled in annoyance at his naiveté while he pounded out Tchaikovsky's piano concerto number one. He had to remember he had very little dating experience. None, actually. His tendency to act on his passions unchecked was one of the things that became a wedge between him and Bella. The difference here was Rose was the object of Edward's passion, where as Bella had never been.

The nervous ball he'd hoped would dissipate now that he'd made his choice only tightened in his stomach. More than anything, he wanted to do this the right way. He wanted to take the time to get to know her all over again from a completely different (and, he hoped, decidedly more intimate) perspective. He pushed on through the piece, taking his out frustrated worry on the piano's ivory keys and worrying about how to tell Rose what he'd done.

{*~*~*~}

Frigid January air pushed Rosalie along, the wind at her back, grey clouds sheeting the sky. December had gone by in a flash, a whirling dervish of rehearsals and performances, not to mention the holidays. As always seemed to be the case during the last few months of the year, time significantly sped up from October until after the New Year before screeching to an unceremonious halt come January 2nd. In addition to the extra time with the philharmonic, she had her private lessons with high school students auditioning for the all-state orchestra. Despite the bustle of the season, it had not done anything to distract her from thinking of Edward. Even when he wasn't there physically, she was reminded of him and how much she longed for him. All together, the twelfth month of the year was downright exhausting. Thankfully, the concerts had gone swimmingly, her time spent with Edward preparing her amply for the Dvořák solo.

The coldness from the outside against the glass doors created a vacuum, and when Rosalie attempted to open the front entrance, she needed to use her entire body to pull against the handle. Her hair got sucked into the warmth first, followed quickly by her body, and she was propelled forward. The air knew her purpose and that this would be difficult for her, so it did its job, pushing her along. A few musicians loitered in the lobby, glancing up in surprise as Rosalie made her entrance. The door slammed shut behind her; a loud entrance for a usually quiet woman. Never unassuming, but always quiet. She was greeted with warm smiles. Over the weeks, she had begun to consider them all her family, this being her home away from home. She realized, almost in surprise, that she'd changed her outlook on where she fit in the music world. Tangible connections had been made.

She'd be breaking the catalyst of those connections now. She could only hope that while she did, they would still look at her as one of their own and embrace her as they had over the past few months. Her satchel was not weighed down with sheet music but rather with the idea of goodbye, a single sheet of watermarked cotton bond paper, sparsely inked but enough to get the message across. The thought of writing it had danced through her mind for weeks; with Mr. Holland curled next to her, she'd written and printed it, signing her name with a quick flourish. The words on paper, she already felt lighter. She and her cello had sung of how all one needed is love, love is all you need.

Entering the theater's front office, she was greeted by the secretary, a woman who had been a child when the theater was built.

"Mrs. Cope, I believe I'm to give this to you."

The letter was placed on the low desk and Shelly Cope pressed her hand to her puffy red hair, in search of the glasses she needed to read. Not finding them there, she absentmindedly searched around her desk that was covered with papers until Rosalie gently pointed to the glasses that hung from the beaded lanyard around her neck. "If it were a snake, it would have bit me," she muttered, placing the glasses on her nose. Finally she was able to see what Rosalie Hale had presented her with, skimming the words before her eyes flew upward to Rosalie's expectant face.

A resignation letter.

"But why?" Mrs. Cope sputtered out. "Were you unhappy with your experience, Miss Hale?"

"Oh, no, just the opposite."

Her mind visited the reasons why: the time she and Edward had spent together in the last month, being in one another's orbit but hardly in each other's company.

The second week of December, immediately prior to the opening of the holiday concert series, they began dress rehearsals, spending time on the lit stage and getting ready for the imminent performances. During a break, she'd seen Edward having a conversation with the stage manager, a frown darkening his face. The bull-headed man she'd come to know was going toe-to-toe with the diminutive woman. Rosalie watched as he shook his head and she almost felt bad for the stage manager, knowing whatever the woman was selling, Edward wasn't buying. The woman stormed off, brushing past Rosalie as she had made her way to Edward with a gentle questioning expression.

"Confetti cannons, Rose. The last thing this orchestra needs is cheap gimmicks and to have that sparkling crap all over everything. People come to us for the music. Why muddle it with nonsense?"

She had smiled and shrugged, explaining that sometimes even adults need visuals to better connect with the music, reminding him of the scarves that she used with her preschoolers. Mostly she'd been interested in seeing this side of Edward: the flustered side. She'd never seen him let down his defenses before and even though it was over something as silly as confetti cannons (which, she agreed, should be ridiculous and unnecessary), she liked seeing it. After a quiet look and a gentle touch to his arm, he calmed considerably, murmuring that he should probably find the stage manager and apologize. It wasn't everything that she could have said or done, but it was all that could be offered in this group practice setting, and it was enough to make him realize his reaction had been a bit harsh.

Dress rehearsals went as expected. Lights beat down on them, gels were shifted into place, and Edward cursed under his breath more times than Rosalie could keep track of. Their inexplicable pull only intensified throughout the last month, two magnets that were drawn to each other. Neither could forget their rocky start and each wondered what or who had changed polarity. She was finely tuned to him, even while sitting in the cello section. His every movement, every action was connected to her. Edward's eyes kept wandering back to where she sat, watching as she laughed at something the second chair, Kate, said, while they waited for the tech crew to focus a light. The notes of her laughter danced over to where he stood at the podium and yearned to be the one making her laugh, to have the opportunity to bend his head close to hers and whisper in her ear.

Together yet apart, they longed for the quiet of the practice rooms. There was no opportunity in the group setting for conversation, other than that required by perfunctory courtesy. Yet they found little ways to work the other into their routines, to remind one another of each other. Her morning coffee, his tap of the ring finger; while they could not show these publicly, their lives intertwined when they could not. Jack would greet her as she walked into the theater, lavishing her with the attention that his owner could not. During her spot in the soloist chair, opening night, he noticed that she had added a tap to her cello, three instead of the standard two.

He could only hope he knew the reason why. He had every intention of asking her once the run was over, but what then?

Near the end of the run of the concert series, just prior to the evening performance, she started making her way to the stage but paused when she saw Angela Weber standing with a few of the other musicians. They knew one another only tangentially, moving in the same circles but never overlapping. However, Rosalie knew it was her seat that she'd taken and she'd heard of her mother's recent passing, so she detoured toward the bespectacled woman.

"Angela Weber? I'm Rosalie Hale." Angela's face relayed that she knew who Rosalie was and she smiled softly at her, encouraging her to continue. "I just wanted to give my condolences on your loss." She kept it simple, not wanting to give false niceties or offers that might seem disingenuous to someone she didn't know.

"Thank you, Rosalie. It happened quicker than we expected but... well, I'm just glad that she's no longer in pain," Angela spoke quietly. "I'm here early to talk to a few people, see if they have some leads about gigs. Mrs. Cope gave me a list of people I can speak to in the area, too. My family is here so I'd rather not move if possible. It's been hard to process mom's passing but I've always found that throwing myself into my music helps me clear my head, and it's what she'd expect of me-" Angela cut herself off, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling, and we barely know one another. I know we aren't acquainted well, but if you hear of anything..."

"I'll certainly let you know, Angela."

Their conversation tumbled around in Rosalie's head, replaying over and over while she performed, while she traveled to see her parents, while she told them first of Edward and second of the performances. They smiled knowingly, their love for their music and each other always so intertwined to Rosalie that she was grateful for them that they'd never been forced to choose. She loved and enjoyed playing with the orchestra but keeping her feelings for Edward at bay was beginning to exhaust her. Rosalie didn't even know if they would be compatible, but she believed that they deserved a chance to try.

Which is why Mrs. Cope was now holding her letter of resignation. She would do this so that they could try. People are more important than music; it was something she'd come to realize more clearly over the past few months. Music was her life's ambition but Edward was her heart's. The motions of life were only as good as the person living it, and she wanted more.

"What a shame. Two of you in one day." Mrs. Cope's voice broke her from her thoughts.

"I'm sorry? Is someone else leaving?"

"Why, yes. Mr. Cullen handed in his letter just moments before you came in." Rosalie's look of surprise caused her to backpedal. "Oh dear, I probably shouldn't have told you that. If you see anyone, please don't share that information. I keep hoping that he'll reconsider. I'm not passing along the letter until the end of the day, in case he changes his mind. I'll hang on to yours, as well."

Rosalie was walking out the door before Mrs. Cope finished her sentence, giving a quick nod of assurance to the woman that she wouldn't say a word to anyone. And she wouldn't... except to the one who mattered the most.

She headed toward his office but somehow it felt wrong, and she realized that he wouldn't be there. Jack's head peeked around the corner, as though he'd been waiting for her to arrive, and he joined her in the search for his master. Together, they made a sharp left, her feet carrying her faster as he heeled at her side. From a fast walk to a near run, they made their way through the winding halls, only stopping when they'd finally arrived at the door of the practice room. The pads of her fingertips pressed against the door, knowing that he was on the other side, able to feel his presence as one might feel a fire. Her hand shook a bit as she reached for the doorknob, but only excited energy pulsed through her body.

Jack nudged her encouragingly, his nose behind her knee, herding her along into the room. She held the door open to let him pass through to join them in their sanctuary, but instead he sat, swishing his tail along the tiled floor, nodding his muzzle toward the room. He knew the importance of this moment. The time had come for them to finally be alone, unobserved and behind closed doors.

Edward felt her there, too, and as soon as she had slipped through the door he abruptly stopped playing. His eyes flew to hers, sensing that something was amiss. Her face was flushed, her bottom lip quivering as important words waited to break forth. Her eyes were anxious with a touch of worry, but oddly happy too, as if she had just learned some great secret. Edward's heart skipped. By her expression, he suspected she knew what the secret was. It was hard to believe that they were finally alone and she was _right there_. A few short strides and he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her if he dared. He rose from the piano and faced her and there were no more consequences between them.

She hadn't budged from the closed door, her back resting against it as she watched him. Her feet wanted to move, to unite her with him. Before she could force a single bold step, Edward came to her. He stopped when his face was mere inches from hers. His green eyes were ablaze with an intensity she had never seen before, and something in Rosalie's head told her to brace herself. His hands came to her face, his fingertips brushing ever so softly against her chin. She felt an unmistakable passion churning just below the surface of his touch. He brought his mouth to hers; his hot breath and the lingering scent of cologne made her forget momentarily what she wanted to say.

"Rose," he whispered against her lips with the reverence of church bells. That was all it took. She let herself do what she'd wanted to for months: she gave herself over to him. Her mouth parted and she let her eyes flutter shut in delicious sensation she'd imagined for what seemed like a lifetime.

Finally, _finally,_ he was kissing her and again his existence was forever altered. It felt so natural, so right, he wondered how he'd survived without her searing kisses thus far. His earlier nervousness was momentarily forgotten in his moment of abandon. He kept the pace slow and tender and firm, and her lips were soft and sweet and willing; it was only seconds before trepidation gave way to growing frenzy. Her hands traveled over his chest and shoulders, curling around his neck and running through his hair. Edward forced one hand to break contact with her and it slid palm down to the door beside her head. The other wandered to her hip and grasped hard as he reluctantly pulled his mouth away from hers, inwardly cursing the need to breathe.

"Rose," he said again; he loved saying her name. "Come to dinner with me tonight?" He was eager to begin the future it had taken them far too long to make possible.

She smiled, a bit shaky from the power of his kiss and the way it made her insides tingle with anticipation of the promise it held. "I'll come to dinner with you tonight, and every night..." She trailed off, moving her face back so that her eyes could focus on his. "If you withdraw your resignation."

"But why? I've considered this from all angles and this is the only way..." his voice faded in a heartbroken whisper as his hand waved suggestively between them.

"You leaving this orchestra would be a huge loss to the community." His heart sank as she continued. "I respect you too much to allow you to make such a selfish decision."

"It's pointless," he countered as he took her hand and kissed it. "I can't be _near _you but not _with _you. I can't ignore _us_ anymore. I'm no longer willing to make that sacrifice. Are you, Rose? Can you ignore us?" he paused for a moment, giving her a chance to reply, which she didn't. "The orchestra will find a replacement," he continued. "And I can find another-"

She silenced him with a quiet plea.

"Edward, this is who you are meant to be," she whispered. "What you are supposed to be doing with your life. You cannot deny that truth. I couldn't live with myself if I knew I had come between you and all of this. You're the heart and soul of this orchestra, and they need you. That's why you must remain conductor. I've spoken to Angela. She's ready to resume her former position as first chair and I'll go back to teaching full time."

"What exactly are you saying, Rose?"

She set her jaw before she answered him because she anticipated his reaction. "I turned in my resignation a few minutes ago."

He tensed as she'd expected, his brow furrowing with disapproval. "It's unfair for you to give up your future here on my account. I won't stand between you and your dream."

She placed a calm hand on each of his cheeks, and rested her forehead against his. "Then don't. Let us be together, and let me be the one to leave. This is the right choice. I'll go back to doing what I was doing before and I'll be okay." He began to shake his head in protest. His intense green eyes searched hers for the honesty of her statement. She kept her expression as serene as the love in her heart. She saw recognition of the truth of her words; he believed her, but still didn't agree.

Tilting her chin down, their foreheads lightly rested together. "When I came to audition for the symphony, I came because I knew there was something I was missing in my life. I was searching for it, but I wasn't sure what _it_ was. Now I know. It was _you._ The best things in life come at a price and I'm ready to pay mine."

"The price is too steep. I can't let you do it."

"Yet,_ I _should let _you_? Why is it fair for you and not me? Your leaving would have a major impact on the city's music community. We can't be selfish. We must consider what is best for everyone and look at the whole picture. You taught me that," she argued. He tried to protest, but she wouldn't let him. "Shhh, Edward. Trust me. I know who I am and I'm certain I won't be okay if I don't have you in my life," she finished with conviction. "Besides, I love teaching. I honestly feel like _that's_ where I can do the most good, where I'm most needed."

"You're wrong," he whispered in her ear. "You're most needed right here, by my side." His fingers tilted her chin up to him and he kissed her against the heavy, cold, sound-proof door of their private little practice room. His mind was filled with a kaleidoscope of sapphire blue and golden wheat, of the sounds of Dvořák and the smell of rosin. He let himself fill with _her_ as he tried to make her understand what she meant to him. He drew from the vast well of love and passion she inspired in his heart and hoped she felt them in each caress of his firm, yielding lips.

She did feel it, every ounce of it and it left her breathlessly awestruck. His intensity made her feel as though she was about to go skydiving. They'd be one hell of an adventure, if they were brave enough to jump out of the plane.

"Please, go rescind your resignation," she urged, ready to take the step into their future. He gave in to her...for the moment. He'd retract his letter but the matter wasn't closed in his mind. They'd discuss it later, but right then, Edward decided it was better to shut the hell up and savor the nearly perfect moment.

"Dinner every night. Starting tonight. I'll pick you up at seven." He stated the terms as fact and contentedly pulled her to him.

"Conditions, eh?" she countered with a wry smile.

"Non-negotiable," he whispered against her lips.

* * *

**KrisBCullen** treats our words with TLC, like they were her own. We appreciate her very much.

We also appreciate our pre-readers **TheHeartofLife, Chele681,** and **Miztrezboo **for their infinite wisdom, support, and gentle nudging in the right direction.

**Team Cellolie **– we are crazy for you ladies. We might say it all the time but thank you for bidding on us and for helping us raise money for Alex's Lemonade Stand.

Originally, we had planned to post chapter 9 along with this chapter. However, chapter 9 decided that it was going to get a little rowdy so we have to spend extra time with it. Both of us lean heavy on the perfectionist scale and we want to bring the characters (and you, the readers) to an ending where you nod your head (and maybe fist-pump a little?) and say "YES!"

We thank you for the amazing, wonderful, thoughtful reviews. Honestly, you are all REALLY sweet to us and we are just thrilled that so many people have come to appreciate Roseward! There are lots of great non-canon/secondary character stories out there. If you're interested in some recs, let us know and we can pass along a list of our faves!

All Our Lovin',  
Lore and LSD


	9. Chapter 9

**Twilight isn't ours.**

**Neither are any songs mentioned.**

**In honor and with love of Team Cellolie - hev1999, fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale.**

**Written by Lightstardusting and LoreliD**

**

* * *

**Edward Cullen was a habitual planner. His routine afforded him the luxury of planning things down to the minute. However, where Rosalie Hale was concerned, he found that careful planning flew out the window, and he was anxious to be with her sooner than when he'd said. Therefore, it was no real surprise when, at eighteen minutes to seven, he found himself standing outside her apartment door. He'd tried to arrive on time, rather than early, even stopping at the corner market and lingering in the aisle, looking mindlessly around before realizing he was standing next to pregnancy tests. A few minutes later, he'd exited with breath mints and the bunch of white lilies he clutched in his hand; they had reminded him of her. Although, if he were being completely honest, everything did in some way, shape, or form.

He stood before her apartment for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, not entirely convinced that this was actually happening. He felt as though the hallway had a surreal quality to it, a hazy detached aura that blurred everything in his vision except her door. He chewed up his breath mint and swallowed it as he lifted his free hand to the small buzzer. He paused for a moment when he realized his hand was on the verge of shaking noticeably. Pulling it back, he allowed it to fall to his side. Although Edward was a man of decision he was not one to rush the natural course of things. Yet, as he took a moment to quiet his nerves he was struck again by the irony of his feelings. Part of him was as nervous as any guy would've been on his first _real_ adult date, because that's exactly what this was for Edward; _grown-up _and _real_. Most of him, however, wanted nothing more than to knock that door down and _show _her exactly what he was feeling.

With a nervous and excited grin on his face, he decided to forgo the doorbell and rapped decisively. He heard the creaking of floorboards as Rose neared the door, but he'd have felt her approach even if he'd been deaf, so attuned were they with one another. The knob rattled, he heard the sliding of a chain lock, the door opened and she was smiling just as nervously as he.

"Hello," she said and fiddled with the door knob.

"Hello," he returned, and smiled sheepishly as he held the flowers out to her, reminding himself not to push them into her hand, as he had done the pie.

"They're beautiful, Edward, thank you," she said and took them from him. "Would you like to come in while I find a vase?" _Brilliant, Rosalie. As if you'd just leave him standing out in the hall?_ They were being overly formal and they both grimaced internally, feeling ridiculously uncomfortable. This was out of the realm of normal for them, out of the carefully built boxes they had placed themselves in.

"Yes, please."

She moved aside to allow him entrance then closed the door behind him. In that moment, the reality hit them both. He was not her boss, he was simply _Edward_. They were alone, in Rose's apartment, unencumbered by professional obligations of propriety but weighed down with the tension that coursed between them. They could do exactly what they wished and be exactly who they were. They could _be _together. Their eyes met and the shy smiles vanished, replaced by matching vibrant ones. This was real and this is what they _wanted._ She felt as though her whole body flushed with warmth. He shuffled his feet as a hand went to the back of his neck and her shot her _his _smile.

"I'm going to put these in water," she said in a slight daze as she scurried off to the kitchen.

_Eyes closed._

Her ears strained to hear every movement of Edward's on the other side of the wall: the placing of his charcoal coat onto the arm of her couch, the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to Mr. Holland, the noise of his shoe against the hardwood floor before it was muffled by the area rug. Wits, words, they were all a lost cause. Instead of thinking, she knew she just needed to act. Let her emotions and passion drive her; it had been denied for too long.

_Eyes open. _

"Did you have an idea of what you want for dinner?" Rosalie called to him as she stood in the kitchen, trying to remind herself of why she was standing there in the first place. _Flowers._ She glanced down to look at the bouquet he had brought for her. Her hands rested on the very counter where he'd leaned a little more than a month prior, when they danced around these feelings. She'd come to the kitchen under the pretense of getting water for the flowers he had brought but now that she was far - hidden on the other side of the thin plaster wall - she only wanted to be near. She didn't want to dance any more. She wanted to embrace them.

"No. I was going to make reservations but I wasn't sure what you were in the mood for, so I figured we'd just happen upon something that we both wanted," he called back. The words held many different meanings and she wondered if he realized it or if the words were unintentional.

_Eyes closed._

_Go to him, Rosalie. Go with your heart and your..._

_Eyes open._

Hastily, she found a pitcher, ran the water, and placed the flowers in it. It had been quite some time since she'd received flowers and while she tried to remember to buy them for herself occasionally, life happened and things got in the way of indulgent luxuries.

She knew she just needed to be near Edward, to close the gap that they'd been trying, so valiantly, to keep between them. The walls that had been carefully resurrected months ago were finally able to crumble, both of them climbing over the rubble to one another. She wasn't exactly sure how things would go on their first date; to be perfectly honest, it was a bit awkward even referring to it as their _first _date. She really considered that to be the evening at Archie's, when she had come clean to Alice about her feelings for him.

Edward sat at the edge of her couch, leaning over to pet Mr. Holland as she wound her way through his legs, pressing short hairs of orange and white into the fabric of his pants. He tried to admonish her, explaining in a hissed whisper that he was trying to impress her owner, but Mr. Holland paid no heed to his words. Sighing in resignation, his fingers scratched behind her ears, as she happily purred. He wished that he could have brought Jack on this dinner date. He really should have thought about the conditions more carefully before insisting that they have dinner out, especially since most restaurants weren't too keen on having animals as patrons.

_Why didn't I invite her to my apartment? Oh, that's right, because that's too forward and it would appear I was only trying to get her in my bed._

_Which would be nice. But not... immediately necessary. Maybe next month? How long do these things take? _

The past couple of hours had sent Edward into a tailspin. He was valiantly trying to pull out of it and get his head in the game. _What game? I have no game._ Hesitation no longer had a place with them, and yet, he hesitated. His relationship experience was so limited. Now he was finally there, surrounded in her home by the essence of her and they finally were able to proceed; only he wasn't exactly sure what that looked like.

Edward was a methodical man; he knew that the right thing would be to take her to dinner. There was an order to things and tonight was dinner. It's why he was so insistent on their having dinner while they valiantly tried to not take things too far in the practice room. Rosalie deserved to be treated with the devotion in which they treated their instruments.

"You're looking pensive, Edward. Everything all right?" Looking up, he forgot about his hesitation and second-guessing for a moment when he saw her beaming down at him, sunshine smile and sparkling eyes.

Clearing his throat, he stood, not sure if they were going to stay at her apartment longer or head straight out. "Just thinking about a composition I was working on earlier. The melody is haunting me but I get to one portion and then... nothing. It's very frustrating." And it was. It wasn't what he'd been thinking about in the moments before but it was always there, the song he heard in his mind when they were together.

"The notes will come, Edward. Just give it time and inspiration will find you when you least expect it." Soft smiles and light hearts were shared, each drawn to the other, meeting in the middle. She leaned forward and kissed him, careful to stop before things could move in a more serious direction. "A little inspiration to get you off on the right foot."

"Thank you for that." He dipped his head, capturing her mouth once again and she melted into him a bit before they both pulled back. "I, uh, suppose we should head out? Are there places nearby that you enjoy?"

"There are, but..." she paused, thinking how she'd rather stay there. She knew sometimes it took him awhile to open up, especially when other people were around. And selfishly, she wanted him to herself after having been surrounded by people the past month.

His fingers caressed the crown of her head, happily stroking the long blonde waves he so desired to weave his fingers through, before gently tipping her chin with the other hand. "But what, Rose?"

"How about we order in, instead. Pizza maybe?"

"Pizza? Are you sure you don't want more? I envisioned candlelight and wine and quiet conversation."

"_You_ are my more. And we can do all those things here. I just... I don't want to share you with anyone." At least not for a little while. In that moment, for that night, she wanted him completely to herself. Perhaps it was selfish, but as far as Rosalie was concerned, it never hurt to be a little selfish when matters of the heart were on the line. "Plus, we'll have time for going out, wining and dining. After all, I believe that was part of the non-negotiable terms and conditions, as stated by you and agreed to by me, in the practice room approximately four hours ago."

He smiled at her mention of the practice room but more at her admission of not wanting to share him.

"Pizza it is," he agreed. He was grateful she had taken control and in doing so, had given him what he wanted too. He wondered if she would always be able to speak his desires before he knew them himself.

[~*~*~]

They both settled on the couch, their thighs touching. He kept glancing down at where their legs pressed together and she inwardly smiled at his reaction. A quiet dinner in her apartment afforded them closeness and a sense of comfort that they wouldn't have had at a restaurant. Instead they were here, together, and he knew what he wanted. I If he was reading all of the signs correctly, he knew she wanted the same. But tragically, overanalysis was a flaw of his when it came to… everything. They ate their messy pizza in the silence that chewing enforced and Edward began thinking, which for Edward could be dangerous._ What if we don't work? What if she gave it all up for nothing?_ He felt guilty over Rose's resignation. Surely she too felt the intensity of emotion that continued to draw him to her. She willingly gave up her position in the orchestra to follow her heart, as he had been willing to do. Edward was deeply touched by what she'd done.

"Edward? What are you thinking?"

He said nothing, unsure of how to begin after so many months or repressing his thoughts where she was concerned.

"I promise you, whatever you're thinking, I've probably felt the same." It was what he'd said to her on Thanksgiving.

"I was thinking that you're a brilliant cellist with a promising future, a future you gave up for me," he said, taking the empty plate from her lap and setting it, along with his own, on the coffee table in front of them.

Rose's brow crinkled. "I don't see it quite that way."

"Tell me how you see it." He took up the free hand resting in her lap. His green eyes were more calm and serene than when he'd arrived but the firm, yet gentle grip in which he encased her hand betrayed his worry.

"To begin with, it was never a goal of mine to play for an orchestra specifically. My outlook and priorities changed," she said, remembering her near fatal encounter with the bus. "I knew something was missing in my life, I just wasn't sure what it was. I was searching, and being part of the orchestra helped me find _exactly _what it was I was missing."

He kept his gaze even, and was grateful the thunderous pounding in his chest was relatively silent. "What were you missing, Rose?" His hand unconsciously squeezed hers a little tighter.

"I was missing _this_," she said, waving her hand between the small distance between them. "Whatever _this_ is, or could be." She didn't want to say love, even though she was almost positive that's what she felt. He smiled _his_ smile again, his eyes falling bashfully to the couch cushion, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheekbones in the soft light. Then his frown returned.

"I'm afraid you might regret it some day. What if you start to resent us? Things like that tear couples apart Rose; I've seen it happen."

She wanted to dismiss his absurdity; as if it were possible she could ever regret giving up anything that kept her apart from him. Not to mention, he just worried too much. Her free hand moved up his forearm and through his thin sweater she could feel his tension sear her fingertips. The middle of his noble brow was drawn in guilty torment. Rose brushed her fingertips from his temple through his hair down to his neck and felt some of his tension dissipate. Her hand squeezed his as she leaned in a little closer.

"I don't know if we're going to work out. I don't expect you to know either. But I _am _sure that I would regret not knowing what _might_ be between us if we didn't try."

He smiled and moved closer, too, as he brought her hand to his lips. He wondered what he'd done to be so fortunate as to find someone as giving and full of life, willing to risk her career on the _chance _of something wonderful. "Before you, I'd lost myself," he began to confess as his lips ghosted over her fingers. "I floated, not sure of when or even if I'd find my way back to where I'd once been. I'd forgotten that feeling of sublime joy I once got, not only from making music but hearing it too." He brought his lips to her cheek, placing tender slow kisses toward her ear.

She nodded, taking his words and internalizing them as though they were her own. Her own words were a seamless continuation, and it was difficult to tell where his heart had stopped speaking and hers had begun. "I was looking for something more. I was doing what I always did; I looked to music. Music is comforting, it's where my passion lies. But, Edward, being with you? Playing together and realizing that there are people who truly do share my passion, it made me realize that missing link. _People. _One person, in particular. _You," _she murmured, her eyes shut.

"Songs that I've heard many times over had lost their meaning somewhere along the way. I hear them now and they're all revitalized, like I'm hearing them for the first time. You taught me how to _listen_ again, Rose. You gave me back my passion for music." His soft voice went hoarse at the end of his statement and he brought his lips back to hers. Rosalie's lips were reassuring and her kiss told Edward to _breathe. Relax. Enjoy._ The fusion was delicious and Edward allowed himself to push his worries aside. She seemed resolute and sure of her decision, and he had to trust that she knew what she wanted. He knew what he wanted, and now he just counted himself incredibly lucky that he could keep close to him what he held most dear: his Rosalie and his career. For he well knew that rarely was anyone so fortunate in life.

The minutes passed and the kiss grew deeper as they became comfortable enjoying each other _this_ way. Edward's hands ached to touch her where it wasn't gentlemanly to touch a lady on a first date. Her fingers itched to unzip his sweater and peel it off of him, but she knew that wasn't very ladylike. Just as she was about to say to hell with propriety, Mr. Holland meowed _right_ in her ear. Opening her eyes, she saw the cat next to their heads, happily perched on the back of the couch.

"It's okay, I'm used to it. Jack likes to watch, too," Edward teased. Rose laughed before remembering why Mr. Holland would do such a thing.

"She's hungry. She's usually been fed by now," she murmured, pulling away and standing up, the moment now past. Edward stood too, attempting to help Rosalie clean up. "No, no, sit. Two plates and a pizza box don't make for heavy lifting. Besides, with hauling my cello all around, I could sell tickets to the gun show." She winked and flexed to underscore her punchline before collecting their plates, carrying them off to the kitchen.

He glanced around the room, uncertain of what he should do in this quiet moment. She was only putting away dishes, but his heart longed to be near hers; he knew it was silly and he shook his head at his dependency on her physical proximity. Her cello found its way into his arms again, a comfort, and he held it as he wished to hold her but didn't know how to ask. He ran his fingers along the neck, toward its body, his hand visited the womanly curves of the instrument and he thought of doing the same to its mistress.

"You look good holding that. Are you sure you're not having dreams of a cello career in your future? I'm sure that Jasper could find use for a cello player in the jazz band." Her teasing tone didn't mask the huskiness of her voice as it dropped lower, moving closer to where he stood; the need to touch him, to feel him pressed against her, was maddening. Her arms wrapped around him once more and she pressed herself against his back, her hands finding their home on his biceps. In unison, sighs were emitted, their chests both rising and falling with the air that was expelled.

If there had been a score to accompany their evening, that musical interlude seemed to be shifting. The pizzicato of their stilted meeting at the door was followed by the allegretto of their warm chatter and shared meal. As she wrapped herself around him, the adagio of the slow sensual contact flowed through them. The beats of their hearts remained the same throughout, but the mood in the apartment had become hazy, dream-like, leaving Edward wondering if the wine had gone to his head or rather if she had. He had the distinct feeling that it was the latter.

His eyelids fluttered shut as he spoke, a bemused smirk on his face. "I hadn't gotten the chance to tell you I acquired a cello."

"Did you?" She tilted her head to look at his profile, seeing that his eyes were closed. Her left hand dragged to massage his shoulder before continuing on its journey.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as her fingers traced his neck. "Yes. And every night I played. The time I longed to spend with you, but couldn't, I held it instead."

Her stomach dropped as she caught the accidental admission at the end of what he'd said. If he longed to hold her, she could certainly accommodate him. Her hand slowly traveled over him and he could not dream the realness of her touch, her thumb running against the day's stubble of his chin. A dream didn't hold her scent, vanilla and sunshine and _her_, enveloping him more than it had ever before.

Pushing lightly on his jaw, she whispered, "Edward, open your eyes." Astonishing intensity pulsed through the both of them as they could see they both thought the same thoughts, dreamed the same dreams, wanted the same wants; their eyes and souls mirrored each other's.

And now, nothing was standing in their way.

He was right there, and her patience with suppressing what she wanted had worn out in the practice room. She took the neck of her cello in her hand, moving it out of her spot so that she could stand there instead. Leaning in, she kissed tongue made a languid circuit around his, her hands tripping lightly over the fine knit of his sweater. He moaned, and she could feel the instant he let go and embraced the here and now. His arms quickly wrapped around her, one around her waist, the other moved up her back between her shoulders, his hand lightly grazing the back of her neck.

They gave themselves completely to the kiss. They explored and couldn't stop touching as they embraced the still seemingly unreal concept of _them_. Edward marveled at how absolutely perfect she felt pressed against him, as if the closer his heart was to hers, the more love it could hold to lavish on her. Rosalie didn't notice that her arm was getting heavy from the awkward way she was holding her cello from their bodies and Edward was completely unaware of the ache in his cheeks from grinning, even while kissing her.

She broke away first but didn't pull back from him. She simply giggled, unable to control her inner fourteen year old any longer. The melodic sound made Edward chuckle, too, and they held each other for a moment, slowly and slightly swaying, their foreheads resting against one another, their eyes shut, each too afraid to open them. Finally, when her arm couldn't take it anymore, she moved away from him, putting the cello on its stand. They were physically close but she felt they could be closer still. He followed, standing near as she put the cello to rest for the evening, willing to follow her anywhere.

"Edward, please..." she purred, her hands winding around his shoulders as she pressed herself closer to him. "The thought of you, the thought of _this, _has been on my mind since Thanksgiving..."

He picked up where she left off. "This is what I longed to do then..." trailing off, as his lips danced along the smooth, sweet skin of her neck. In a synchronized dance, she walked forward as he took gentle steps backward, both of them falling onto her couch. Mr. Holland scrambled to get out of the way, irritated that she'd been displaced but quickly finding comfort on the window sill. There was nothing tentative about their pacing; frenetic exploring was the theme of the evening, first of feelings and now of bodies. Rosalie's leg swept over his lap and she straddled him, unzipping the charcoal sweater and running her hands along the broad plane of his chest before pushing it down his arms and off his body. Her hands returned to rest on his biceps, loving the feel of what she had imagined so many weeks ago when she'd first watched him in rehearsal.

"I just want to try one thing..." his hands found the hem of her shirt and he paused. In that pause, her hands crossed in front of her, lifting the material up and away from her body, before discarding it on the couch next to where he sat. The sound of their ragged breaths met, neither able to tell where hers ended or his began.

"Just one thing? Surely, you can think of more to do than just _one thing._" Her voice was still thick and husky, laden with both humor and innuendo.

Edward grinned deviously, his mind was fuzzy from wine and joy and the visions of the multiple things he'd like to do to her. "Do you have a bed?" he asked playfully.

"Do I have... a bed? Yes, of course I have a bed." Rosalie's smile broadened and it occurred to her that she hadn't taken the time to even show him around her apartment before winding up grinding against him like a hormonal teenager. "Would you like a tour?" She attempted to remove herself, to stand and offer her hand, but Edward was having none that. His arms wrapped around her torso, his fingers pressed right outside the ridge of her spine, where the sting of the tattoo gun had marked her years before.

"Of your bed?"

She leaned forward, tugging his bottom lip lightly between her teeth before kissing him soundly. The nervous energy had dissipated and the both felt comfortable with this shift to quiet teasing and insinuation. "You'd like a tour of my bed?"

He pushed off the couch and stood, easily lifting her along with him. She squealed at the movement, a very un-like Rosalie noise and he wondered what other noise he could conjure. "Yes, please. Let's see if I can find my way there."

He strode with her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, his hands still pressing hungrily on her tattoo. Pinning her against the first door he said, "Now, what do we have here?" She started to speak, to answer him, but he quieted her with his lips, speaking against hers. "Remember? I'm finding my way."

She tilted her head back, granting him access to the column of her neck again. "We're both finding our way, Edward." It was a breathless moan but it was true, in so many ways.

One hand briefly let go of her back for a moment, jiggling the handle, only to reveal a small linen closet. "No bed in here."

She giggled as he swung her around, aiming for the next door. "How very astute."

The following door was open and he carried her into the small bathroom. She thought he'd turn back around and continue his search. Instead, he rested her on the sink vanity and took the opportunity and fortuitous placement of where she was perched to lower his lips to the swell of her breast. One arm stayed firmly wrapped around her waist, not allowing her to possibly fall back into the mirror. His fingers caressed the satin bra, the silky material feeling smooth beneath his fingers, before reaching the even softer skin that lay beneath. Her hands rested on either side of the sink as she jutted her chest out, presenting herself to him, loving the way his lips and hand lavished much needed, much anticipated, attention on her.

She lowered her chin and watched him, his open mouth placing kisses and sucking along the seam where the material met her skin. His hand palmed her breast, kneading it gently before he brought it around, nimbly undoing the hook-eye clasp and pulling it from her body. He hummed in appreciation, his mouth never stopping its exploration.

Leaning forward, she grasped the back of his t-shirt, wanting to feel her skin pressed to his and knowing it was only a matter of time before she would demand this tour end if she didn't at least feel him. The shirt landed somewhere in between the shower and toilet, neither concerned about it now that it was no longer a hindrance. "While the bathroom is a lovely stop on our tour, and trust me, I'm enjoying _this_... I suggest we get a move on." A flick of her tongue in the shell of his ear and a tug with her teeth on his lobe had him groaning. At that, she pushed him back slightly so that she could stand with him once more.

"Oh, but I intend to see all the nooks and crannies," he teased, loving this new playfulness they could share.

"Do you now? Maybe I'll give you a hint?" Fingers deftly danced to the button at her waist and with a quick maneuver, the material pooled at her feet. She stepped out of them, now clad only in her panties and heels. Leaning in, their bodies brushed once more, hers significantly less clothed than his, although she knew it would only be a matter of time. "Follow me, Edward." Her warm breath rippled over his neck and he gave in with a nod, unwilling to resist what everything in his life had been pushing him toward for the last months. She reached the only door he had not tried in the hallway and paused for a moment, turning to find him right there, his breath hot in her ear, his fingers entwined through her hair.

"Rose, what we might have is extremely important to me. We're not rushing this... are we?" His cautious (yet undeniably lustful) stare bore into her. His words and his body spoke two separate messages, one hand cupping her left breast, the other hand's fingers tracing the lace of her panties.

"I want you. Do you want me?" She asked this very simply, very matter-of-factly with no coy beguiling.

"Very much."

"Then no more words," she whispered, and opened the bedroom door.

He kept his body flush to hers and mirrored her steps. His lips hovered over her shoulder as his calloused thumbs pressed greedily into the f-holes tattooed on the small of her back. Without realizing it, she tilted herself to him. The warmth of his bare chest against her back raised the goose flesh all over her. Smiling sideways at him, she slipped away and crawled onto the bed, reaching toward the nightstand to turn on the little lamp. Edward's breath hitched; the sight of Rose crawling on the bed was his undoing. He moved swiftly, kicking his shoes off near the door. With a quick movement of his hands, his jeans and underwear fell to the floor beside the bed. She started to turn on her back but he caressed her hip softly, silently urging her to stay still. Kneeling on the bed behind her with a hand resting on the mattress, he fulfilled a fantasy that had tormented him since Thanksgiving.

He leaned forward and reverently kissed her tattoos.

She froze, too enraptured to move. He traced the outlines of the black ink with his tongue slowly, diligently, reveling in every second he spent devouring the only tattoo he'd ever seen that drove him mad. Soon his lips wandered over the rest of her back, the places he'd neglected thus far. His warm mouth kissed the outline of her shoulders as his hand traced the curves of the inside of her thigh, coming teasingly close to where she so wanted him to touch. He moved closer, so that they were perfectly matched, and the feel of his excitement behind her made her thighs twitch in anticipation. She pushed back into him and he gasped, his hands finding both of her hips while his thumbs pressed into her tattoo once more.

Rose, deciding that she needed to _see_ him, laid herself on her back and taking Edward's hands, pulled him down on top of her. The movement of her skin against his was better than any aria, and beneath him he could feel her body humming in a vibrato that alternated between anticipation and abandon. Edward fit himself naturally and comfortably between her thighs as dipped his face down to nuzzle his nose against hers. She reveled in his weight on top of her and cooed and opened her eyes to meet his gaze. What she saw staring back at her made her ripple inside. His heart laid bare and he was offering it up to her as if to say _here are all my secrets, all my fears. I adore you._

She melted.

Edward kissed her so deeply, she felt like he might have touched her soul. He kept his eyes open, refusing to deny himself the pleasure of admiring so much beauty before him. The sight of her beneath him inspired so many fantasies, some of which he was tempted to fulfill right then. His better judgment told him that considering this was their first time together, now might not be the best time. _There will be time for that_, he thought happily as his leg slid up the mattress, catching Rose's knee and coaxing it up which shifted the angle of her hips. The change was delicious and Rose moaned, clutching his back and smiled. Reluctant to move away from her, he started to reach for his pants which housed his wallet and the condom that he had carefully slipped in earlier, hoping that this moment would come to pass but never presuming it would happen quite as quickly as it did.

Curiously, she watched his movement, trying to discern what he was doing. Once it clicked, she shook her head once. Decisively. The pants, the wallet, the condom all fell to the floor at different speeds. His eyes held the question, _Are you sure?_ Her eyes flicked to the top of the night table where her compact-looking pill pack sat before returning to his. Understanding, relief, exhilaration rose to the surface of his gaze. The message twinned in their matched searing looks:_ I'm sure._ To drive the point home, she raised her hips from the bed and slowly slid her panties off them and down her legs.

Edward lay himself over her, his bronze hair tickling her nose as his teeth teased her collarbone and nibbled up her neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled his face up; she needed his lips against hers. She kissed him deeply, her leg hitching over his lower back as she raised herself into him; he was warm and hard and _so close_. He whimpered and his abs brushed against her navel as he swirled into her, making her head fall back in near ecstasy. They explored and touched and enjoyed as they whispered secrets to one another. They let their mutual passion lead them to where they'd wanted to go for the last two months, and in so doing, they each found freedom in the other. When they joined together, Edward drowned himself in her perfection and swore he'd never felt so complete as he did in that moment.

Every minor shift in his tempo inspired a new sound. The crescendo was coming and Rose's hands slid over her head to brace herself against the wall. Both her ankles were on his shoulders, his hands on her hips as he orchestrated their movements. One rough hand slid up the length of her leg and his calloused fingers encircled her ankle as his teeth found the soft spot just above his thumb. The other hand followed suit, and once both Rose's ankles were in his grasp, he eased her legs apart and held them at arm's length. Now he could see _everything_ and Rose was beside herself, right on the verge. He gently placed one ankle on the bed and trailed his fingers along the inside of her calf, up her thigh until his fingers found her clit and moved in synchronized circles with the rest of him.

She moaned and quickly felt the precipice approaching, but she was desperate to have him closer to her, to feel his heart thumping against hers. She leaned forward and her hands raked up his chest to his neck. He released her other leg and leaned toward her to meet his lips to hers. Skin against skin, hearts matching beat for beat they danced a waltz unique to them alone.

Their eyes connected, and they could both feel themselves finally unraveling. Edward buried his head in her neck, a thumb caressed her cheek as a muffled groan escaped him. She followed just seconds later, her hands pulling his hair as they met in perfect synchronization.

Edward kept himself propped up over her, watching the pink flush wash over her body and loving the thin sheen of sweat they both shared. Her eyes were still closed, and she was wearing the most beautiful, content smile, and Edward felt his heart was ready to burst from what he was feeling. Thinking his weight must be bothersome to her, he started to pull away.

Her eyes flew open, her hand clutching his hips. Silently she shook her head, holding him there, pressed against her. It had been too long that they waited, too long that they were apart to separate physically just yet. Acquiescing, he let his body's weight fall, as he didn't want to move.

They lay together, their hearts harmonious and light with the knowledge that they had made the right choices. Their future together unfolded before them like a fresh, unmarked sheet of composition paper, and their dissonance resolved into a lovely and freeing consonance.

_Fin_

_

* * *

_This story wouldn't exist without the Fandom Gives Back Team Cellolie, comprised of** fngrcufs, juliebutterfly, whatsmynom, hev1999, mycrookedsmile, and winterstale. **When we listed a Roseward fic to raise money for children with cancer, we honestly thought we'd be going for our list price. You girls came through tenfold, amazing us to no end. We hope we told the story well and incorporated everything you envisioned. Thank you for making us yours. Now we belong to you always. Expect us at Thanksgiving dinner. (We'll bring the Cool Whip!)

To our gorgeous beta – **krisbcullen – **You've been with us from start to finish, always making our words stronger, our stories prettier, and laughing with us all along the way. Everyone should be as lucky to have a beta as talented as you are.

To our prereaders – **chele681, miztrezboo, and theheartoflife – **The three of you have made such a difference with this story and we are so blessed that you had you every step of the way.

Thanks to our husbands who graciously share us with our ficwives and our characters, who sometimes take over our brains.

And finally, thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted, favorited. You are all extremely pretty and we hope that you enjoyed reading as much as we've enjoyed writing! If your on twitter and want to KIT you can find us - lightheartlore, lightstardust, and lorelid.

**Reviews are music notes wrapped around our hearts.**


End file.
